


Balance, Imperfect

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Complete, Dating, Depression, Disability, Domesticity, Falling In Love, HP: EWE, Healer Draco Malfoy, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Longing, M/M, Oral Sex, Physical Disability, Post-War, Rimming, Romance, dubious medical ethics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-11 08:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 91,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10460622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: When Harry sustains an injury in the line of work, he no longer knows how to navigate the life he loved, and finds help and solace from the most unexpected source.





	1. Prologue: The Life He Loved

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to JK Rowling and associated publishers. I make no profit from this work of fiction.
> 
> Deep thanks go out to my betas, carpemermaid and snowgall, who have been so helpful and patient as this thing just kept going. I so appreciate all of your thoughts and suggestions and kindnesses. <3
> 
> Note: This is a disability fic, and there are a lot of things discussed within that may be triggers for some, such as physical injury, depression, and dubious medical ethics involving a Healer and patient. Please heed the warnings.

Harry executes a twisting loop in the air, revelling in the whip of hair over his face. He can hear Ron laughing and calling him a show-off, his words soft-edged and blurry from their distance. But he ignores it as he sees the flickering shimmer of gold.

It’s a simple game of pick-up Quidditch, played with his team, but Morris, the opposing Seeker, is the best he’s played against since Malfoy, and while he relishes the competition, Harry doesn’t deny that his need to win lurks in his throat like he’s accidentally swallowed the stone of a fruit. Morris is on the opposite side of the pitch, closer to where the Snitch is hovering, but Harry sees it first and pulls up short, trying not to alert Morris to its presence. He slows his speed, circling in a lazy winding motion as he keeps an eye on the gold from the corner of his eye.

There’s a moment of intuition, learnt through over twenty years playing, when he senses that Morris has seen it; even before he turns is head, even before his body subtly tenses. Morris settles his hands more securely on his broom and narrows his eyes. He’s just as competitive as Harry is, which should make this harder, but Harry knows it won’t be. He tucks his heels higher, leans in and shoots forward, a split second before Morris does the same thing. This is the fourth time they’ve sighted it, and Harry’s determined not to let it escape again.

Unfortunately, the Snitch notices them. That little golden ball that Harry has loved since he was eleven—he collects them now, all sorts, historical, charmed, foreign, from favourite games—decides not to hover in place anymore just as they both almost reach it. It flutters off, no longer a hummingbird but a falcon, and darts upward. Harry, anticipating this, narrowly misses crashing into Morris; Morris swerves right, then left, as though he’s skidding on air, trying to slow down. Harry angles his broom up, hand already out and reaching. He feels a rattle in his teeth from the vibration of his broom as the tail brushes, hard, over Morris’s shoulder as he flies underneath Harry, still too fast. The clip jolts him forward, propelling him with a crack of speed just as he closes his hand around cool metal, hooting triumphantly.

“Ah!” Harry holds up his fist and points his broomstick downward, slowing as he drops in the air until he can hop off onto the soft, damp grass. “Got it!”

Morris joins him a minute later, and quickly after, the rest of their skeleton teams. He looks at Harry ruefully. “It was closer to me.”

Harry claps him on the shoulder. “It was a good game. You kept me on my toes.”

Morris laughs, eyes shining. He’s a young, still a bit star-struck at the idea of working directly for Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived Twice, but he’s been on their team for six months and Harry is relieved to note that some of the hero worship is starting to fade. “It was exciting to get to play with you, sir. I’m always free to.”

Some of it.

But Harry just smiles and ignores the implication; Morris is a rather beautiful specimen of a man, tall and broad, with sandy hair and hazel eyes, but he’s barely twenty and works for Harry as well. Harry has a hard and fast rule of never mixing business with pleasure, not since his disastrously short-lived fling with Cho, who chose to transfer to desk-duty for a year just to avoid him.

Ron hops off his broom and gives him a shove. “We could’ve ended the game better if you weren’t spending so much time flouncing around instead of paying attention.”

“I was giving you time to practice,” Harry says loftily, smiling, and whistles a few notes of ‘Weasley Is Our King.’

Ron snorts, but invites him out to drinks anyway. Harry usually joins them after a game, but turns Ron down this time—he has different plans tonight.

Body thrumming with anticipation, he Apparates home and takes a quick shower, before pulling on a dark green t-shirt and the black jeans that Adam bought for him during better times. Harry suspects he stayed for so long because of his particular fondness for Harry’s arse in them; whenever they would have an argument about Harry being married to his job, Harry would put on the jeans, which would be pulled off almost as quickly. These jeans are apparently enough to stay a man who wants a more focused partner, someone who will be home promptly at six every evening, and Harry considers them a bit lucky. He and Adam have been broken up for almost two months and it’s probably his longest streak of celibacy in the last ten years, something which Harry plans to rectify tonight.

He casts a small glamour over his face, widening his cheekbones slightly, contouring his nose and mouth a bit, lightening his hair a few shades and covering his scar. He’s not looking for a relationship tonight; while he prefers exclusivity, the Adam thing still stings a bit and it’s impossible to have a one-off when people recognise him.

Harry dithers over a location for a few minutes before deciding on _Broomsticks_. It’s a Friday night, which will mean bigger crowds and louder music at the club than he likes anymore, but that very scene will make it easier to pull. He Apparates there and, indeed, it’s barely an hour after sunset and already there’s a line. Heading to the front, he gets a quirk of a smile and a nod from Elliot, who knows this particular glamour; when he’s single, Harry comes often and spends a lot, and doesn’t mind preferential treatment on the basis of that. Elliot casts his wand at the door, which opens and allows Harry to head inside, toward the pounding base of the music and the cast of flashing, coloured candlelight.

After grabbing a strong drink at the bar, Harry surveys the scene for a minute. They’re all so _young_ , these days. He remembers when nineteen-year-old boys and girls seemed like the pinnacle of sexy, and now they seem like such children. He wonders vaguely if he ever looked that young and snickers into his drink before downing it and heading onto the dance floor.

There’s a young wizard in the middle of it, dancing with abandon, platinum hair flying. Disconcertingly, it makes him think of Malfoy for a second, which makes twice that day. Which makes twice in about the last fifteen years, if you don’t count those idle moments of curiosity when his mind wanders. But this man is no Malfoy; he’s all softness and beauty and confidence, without any of the sharp edges or insecure anger from the last time Harry saw him. Still, the similarity of the hair is enough that he feels his cock begin to thicken a bit, much to his surprise.

Harry winds through the knot of blokes clustered around him; they all see the same thing in the man’s face that Harry does, some fierce, untended sexuality, a looseness of his limbs, a smoky, knowing quality to his eyes. Harry can see that this one knows what he likes, and Harry wants to be the one to give it to him.

He needs this badly. Harry understands his own sex drive and has long ago come to terms with the shame that surrounded his bisexuality those first few years after he’d admitted it. Now, sex is like most important things are to him—a pleasure, a release, a way to keep his body and mind focused and on track. When there’s enough of a break in the crowd, Harry slides in. The man is younger than Harry by about ten years, but he pins him with a smile that makes Harry’s tentative erection bloom, and holds out his arms. Harry steps into them and they grind together for a few minutes to the beat, before the wizard buries his face in Harry’s neck and licks a long stripe up the side of it.

Harry lowers his mouth the man’s ear; he traces the shell of it with his tongue as they rock together. “Where do you want to go?”

“Come on.” Platinum grabs Harry’s hand and tugs him, leading him to a hallway with small, curtained alcoves. He trips them into the first one they can find where they don’t see pairs of feet underneath, and shoves Harry up against a wall, devouring his mouth.

Harry groans into the kiss, clutching at the other man as he frots against his denim-covered thigh. It’s quick and dirty, the way Platinum uses his wand to unbutton and unzip Harry’s jeans, snaking his hand in to surround his erection with long, calloused fingers. Harry pants, leaning his head back against the grimy wall, and thrusts into Platinum’s fist, rubbing at his erection through his tight pants.

He’s getting there when he feels it; a hot sensation in his pocket. Groaning for a different reason, Harry pulls out of a delightfully filthy kiss and halts Platinum’s hand on him.

The man blinks up in surprise. “What is it?”

Harry pulls the galleon out of his pocket. It’s based on Hermione’s Protean charm from fifth year and Kingsley requires them to be carried by all of the Aurors, but only uses them when it’s an emergency and the person they need is in too public an area to view a Patronus. Platinum’s eyes go wide when he sees it. “Don’t Aurors use those?”

Harry smiles; he shakes his head. “They do, but I’m not so cool. I just work at the Ministry. But I’ve got an emergency; I’ve got to go.”

Platinum looks disappointed. “They can’t wait ten minutes?”

“’Fraid not.” Harry does up his flies and starts to leave the curtain, then turns back, smiling gently. “You’re beautiful,” he says, because it’s true.

Platinum smiles back. “I’m usually here on Fridays. Maybe I’ll see you here next week?”

Harry shrugs and nods. With a last look, he leaves the alcove and makes his way deeper into the club; further down the hallway rather than trying to get out the front through the packed dance floor. He exits out the back, clears the glamour off his face, and Apparates immediately to the address on the Galleon.

Chaos greets him. The colour of curses being cast (bright, sharp, shadowed) appear through the curtains of the small house he’s standing in front of. Harry whips out his wand from his pocket just as Robards ducks out from the side of the house, carrying something small and limp in his arms: a child.

Harry blanches, and nods at the house grimly. “Hostages?”

“At least five,” Robards says curtly. “At least two more children. Three perpetrators that we’re aware of. Weasley and Bones are inside. I’m at St. Mungo’s; I’ll be back. Backup is on its way.” He Disapparates with the little boy.

Harry sucks in a swift breath, then lets his mind go blank and hungry as adrenaline fills him. Children. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care what the Dark Wizards have been doing. Even Robards must not, or else he would have given Harry something more to work with in terms of motive or ways to neutralize the threat. But it’s okay; the story will come later, after the fight. In the meantime, muscle/magic memory works best in these situations. This is what he knows; this is what he’s good at.

He processes this all in under a second, then wades into the fray. The curses lighting up the inside of the house are fierce, and Ron is in there, and Susan, with children somewhere. The front door is shattered into splinters. Heading the way Robards came, down the side of the house, Harry surveys his options. There are two small windows that feel like they have a heavy dose of protective magic surrounding them, so he keeps moving until he finds a door in the back cracked open, where Robards must have come out. Casting a quick spell to make sure there are no hidden barriers, Harry steps inside.

It's quiet and dark in the kitchen, so he snakes his way to the front of the house; there’s a dim hallway, flashing occasionally with the ambient light of hexes, but they’re slowing down in frequency. He peeks around a corner, then ducks out of the way as a well-aimed curse flashes past him, nearly singing his ear. He lowers down and checks again: a wizard is on the ground, dead or unconscious, and Ron and Susan are battling the other two, their feet quick-stepping with their opponents, as elegant as a waltz. Stepping out from the corner, Harry sends a _Confringo_ at the witch with wild hair, who snarls in a way that makes him think of Bellatrix Lestrange.

It hits her square in the chest, blasting her backwards, but not before she gets a off an Entrail-Expelling curse toward Susan. Harry throws up a protective shield around her, but the curse is moving too fast; his _Protego_ softens it, minimizing the effects, but Susan crumples hard. Harry casts a stasis charm on her, which should give them plenty of time, and leaves his shield up around her.

Ron is still fighting the third wizard and Harry calms his breathing; seeing Ron in danger is nothing new, but he’s had to learn to control the automatic panic that threatens to make his hands too slippery to hold his wand. Besides, Ron is capable and fast and strong, and even as Harry thinks this, he’s destabilized the ground beneath the perpetrator. Harry joins his friend as the wizard bucks into the wall and crashes to the floor.

“Harry!” Ron says cheerfully. “Lovely of you to join us!”

Harry shakes his head, but gives Ron a little grin. “How’d you guys get here so fast?”

“Reckon neither of us had to do up our pants, mate.” Ron’s still breathing hard. “Thanks for the help with that bitch, though. She made me think of—”

“Bellatrix? Yeah.” Harry heads over to Susan and finds the Portkey pin on her collar that has been charmed to take her directly to St. Mungo’s curse damage ward. He holds her hand to it, but she doesn’t disappear. He looks at Ron questioningly. “Robards wasn’t sure if there were any others.”

“There aren’t.” Ron is certain. “But there are three adults and two children upstairs; Robards took the most injured one, but I’m pretty sure another one is hurt. We can’t seem to Apparate out of here for some reason; probably why her Portkey isn’t working,” he adds, answering Harry’s silent nod toward Susan.

“Okay.” Harry begins up the stairs. “Check them for vitals--Body Binds if necessary. Backup should be here any minute.”

“Got it,” Ron calls up after him.

The scene the greets him upstairs makes him feel ill. There are blood splatters on the walls, and things smell like mildew and smoke and the heavy scent of Dark Magic. He opens the doors one by one, finding them empty until he gets to the room at the end of the hall.

The family of hostages is huddled there, hiding in a clump behind the bed. Two parents, an older teenager and two small little girls (twins, if he’s not mistaken) stare at him with stark, white faces. Harry makes himself clear the grimace from his face, and he looks directly at the mother, giving her a smile. It’s the only time he likes being able to do what he’s about to.

“Hi. I’m Harry Potter.”

She sobs once, soft, muffled, and then louder, clutching her husband who looks dazed with relief.

The teenager stares at him in disbelief, but one of the twins smiles up, blue eyes shining. “Can I see your scar?”

Harry grins. “Well, because you’ve been so brave.” He rakes the hair away from his forehead and hears the mother say, _“It’s him, it’s really him,_ ” voice thick and soppy as the reassurance of his name filters through her fear. He pauses, still looking at the little girl. “Is your sister hurt?”

Her voice begins to wobble. “She… She’s bleeding.” Harry comes closer; none of the colour has returned to her face. In fact, her complexion is ashy-blue and as he steps around the framing of the bed, he can see it’s because her torso is covered in blood.

“They, they took our wands, but I was able to put her in stasis,” the mother explains shakily, remembering herself. She looks at Harry pleadingly. “You can help her, right? You can save her?”

“We’ll do everything we can,” he promises, voice rough.

He tries to levitate her, but whatever they’ve done to the house seems to repel certain spells. The stasis charm proves effective, however, and she’s stable enough for Harry to lift her, which he does carefully. The family follows him silently down the stairs, faces numb with shock and grief, as Harry continues speaking quietly, calmly, anything to help them fill the terrifying void of their thoughts. Ron turns to him.

His face flickers with sympathy and understanding as he looks from Harry’s expression to the girl he’s holding. He knows how Harry feels when there are kids involved. He opens his arms. “Here. Let me take her. I’ve got my pin on. I’ll head to the edge of the property and take her to the hospital. You can get Susan—she’s doing fine.”

Harry smiles gratefully and hands the girl over. Ron takes her expertly, shifting her in his arms so she’s best comfortable; though she doesn’t make a peep of protest, her face relaxes infinitesimally.

Harry feels wrung out but satisfied. It’s the bone-deep ache that often comes with knowing he’s made a difference, and no part of him regrets leaving Platinum to come do this because this is what he lives for.

He’s walking toward Susan when a noise, a motion, catches his senses, and it feels like when he’s about to clasp his fingers over the Snitch. The hair on the back of his neck stands up; bumps rise on his flesh. Harry whirls as the first wizard, who he’d presumed was dead, points the dark wood of his wand at Ron and the girl.

Harry doesn’t think. It’s muscle memory; it’s magic memory. It’s the knowledge that he could not live if something happened to Ron. He lashes his arm out as a stream of deep, flaring red light travels toward his best friend, toward the bleeding little girl, but he’s too _slow_ for the second time that night, _too goddamned slow_ , and the curse is almost at them even as Harry’s own is leaving his wand, so he leaps in front of them, shielding them with his back, and knocking Ron down with the force of his tackle as the world around him goes dark.

***

There is pain, livid and intense as Fiendfyre. Harry floats through it, because he cannot do anything else. He has never believed in Heaven or Hell, and yet now with the small, cogent corners of his mind, he wonders if he is in the latter.

It radiates up his right leg, burning deeply below the knee. His whole lower body aches, and then doesn’t, and then aches again. The darkness is sleep, he figures out, and it wraps around him like cotton, buffering him from the pain, even if just momentarily.

He wonders if he is really sleeping, or if he is dead.

He thinks about Ron and Hermione, and hates himself for his inability to cry.

Harry dreams.

He dreams about making love with Ginny for the first time, her flame-red hair fanned out on his pillow as he kissed her smiling pink mouth and slid inside her and listened as her warm giggle turned into a gasp. He dreams about the blades of knives, dissecting him alive. He dreams about drinks at the Leaky, Ron and Hermione and Neville and Ginny and Luna and Hannah, who surround him like a shield as powerful as a spell from star-seekers and paparazzi, and manage to make him laugh the whole time. He dreams about Platinum, and he knows it’s not right, but the man keeps turning into Malfoy in his mind, low voice in his ear saying, “Potter,” with a hand curled around his dick. He dreams of his last battle with Voldemort, the magic pouring out of him, swamping him with power that still overloads the testing scales of the Ministry. He dreams about thick strains of magic like woven yarn wrapping around his insides. It makes him want to scream, and then there is relief, that same cottony feeling that sleep brings.

Harry dreams.

He hears voices, too. Little snatches of conversation, tiny threads for him to try to follow. The pain comes back, but it’s almost more exhausting to stay asleep at this point than to have a listen.

Hermione’s voice is troublingly weepy when she says, “…but what are the chances of…”

Someone responds, “…no way of being sure. But there are some good…”

Ron’s voice, in his ear, apologising. He sounds as disturbingly distressed as Hermione had. “…thought we had killed him. This is all my fault… I’m so…”

A sweet, feminine voice comes to him, and for a moment he remembers the little girl. But something in him buries that memory, and he recognises Rosie, who pats at his face with her determined hands. “Uncle Harry… …Harry. Will you come back now? Please? Mum and Dad are both so…”

Slowly, Harry comes to understand that he is in the hospital, and that there are people who need him. Ron and Hermione are let in every day, and eventually Molly and Arthur as well. At one point, he latches on to Teddy’s voice, low and warm, speaking to him calmly about Quidditch. Teddy’s a young man now, sixteen years old… Or is it seventeen? Harry isn’t sure; he doesn’t know how long he’s been here.

When Harry blinks for the first time, his eyes are grainy and everything is blurry and too bright, but Hermione and the Healers rush around him like he’s performed a miracle. He makes a croaking sound—he’s so thirsty—and then falls back to sleep, exhausted from his efforts.

The next time, he manages to keep his eyes open for a few minutes. Ron’s hand is holding his. It is almost too hot in his grip, and his eyes are red-rimmed and searching. “Harry? Do you know me?”

Harry gives a little sigh. He tries to clear his throat, but it hurts. Why won’t they give him any fucking water? But he mouths _yes_ , and sees the relief on Ron’s face before he slips away again.

***

“Harry, I need you to remain calm. Can you do that for me?” The voice, irritating and steady, pierces through the fog in his mind. “Please hold up one finger if you can remain calm.”

Harry’s forefinger twitches, and he feels his eyebrows rise. He hadn’t realised he could do that.

“Wonderful,” the voice approves. “Now, I need you to listen. You have been in a magically induced coma off and on for the last several weeks. You incurred some severe curse damage, much of which we were able to repair through a series of procedures. You have been pulling out of the coma on your own, which is extremely good, because we were able to establish that you have no brain damage. We would like to remove the rest of the sleeping charms, but there will likely be some pain. Do you think you can handle it?”

Harry wants to snort. He wants to laugh. He wants to fucking _howl_. Because what the hell does she _think_ he’s been doing? It’s not nearly as bad as it was before, but his right leg aches from the knee down, and everything else feels weird and out of place. Still, he twitches his forefinger again, managing to raise it and give it a little wiggle.

There is a long moment of silence and then the warm, tingling feel of magic blankets him, comforting, soothing, followed quickly by the sensation of pain. His right foot burns, the muscles in his calf scream as they cramp up. His other leg, too, feels decidedly odd. His hips and back are agonizing, even his arms shake with the need for relief. And then the intensity of the torture fades, leaving him trembling in its wake.

Harry cracks his eyes open, just a slit, allowing them to adjust to the brightness, then opens them wide, finding himself staring straight up at the ceiling. He clears his throat; it aches. “Water,” he whispers. “Glasses.”

A straw is led to his mouth and Harry turns his head, slowly sucking at it. The water behaves on his throat the way rain does on parched earth, soaking it in as the dust settles. They remove the straw before he is done drinking, the water dribbles down the side of his cheek. He reaches up to wipe it off with a shaking hand.

“Harry?” Hermione says hesitantly from his other side. He turns his head to her, and finds his glasses being carefully guided onto the bridge of his nose. She looks worried, her eyes are damp, and so he automatically tries to smile at her.

“What happened?” he finally manages, voice hoarse from disuse.

She hesitates. “You were hit with a nasty Severing Curse. They’d not seen the likes of it; it was something new.”

Alarmed, Harry stares at her as the cobwebs begin to sweep from his mind. “Severing curse?”

“Harry,” she says gently, and that somehow says it all.

“What? What happened? _Tell me_ , Hermione!”

Helplessly, her eyes lift, and Harry follows them to the Healer (the _voice_ , his mind supplies). She is fairly young, with dark, dusky skin and wide black eyes, her nose straight and tapered. Her raven hair is done up in a thick plait. She looks at him steadily.

“Mr. Potter.” Her face is serious. “You were hit in two places. Your spine received some damage, for which you underwent three procedures during the last few months. We needed you to wake up before we could assess the full range of damage that exists. Can you feel your legs?”

Bewildered, breath coming too fast, Harry nods wordlessly. “Yes. They hurt.”

“Can you please try to move your left big toe for me?” He does. It should be easy, like the finger; hell, he’d done _that_ while under a magically induced coma. But his toe won’t move. He feels a breeze of air as the Healer pulls away the sheet covering him, exposing him to the cold.

She runs something down his shin. “Can you feel this?”

Harry swallows. “Yes.”

A poke, slightly harder. “And this?”

“Yeah. On, on my thigh.”

She sighs, and gives him a big smile. “That’s really good news, some of the best we could have received,” she informs him.

Something thick and painful is sticking in Harry’s throat, an inability to swallow that has nothing to do with having had no water for months, and he looks to Hermione again. “Tell me, Hermione.”

She sucks in a shaky breath. “Your… Your leg.”

His leg fucking _hurts_. Harry struggles up onto his elbows, impatient. It takes forever, because all of his muscles feel sluggish and tender but he finally leverages himself into a position where he can look down at his own body.

His mind goes blank.

His left leg is pale and skinnier than it’s been in years, uncovered by the sheet. His right leg, which hurts so much from the knee down is simply… not there. His thigh stands out as a stark contrast to what is missing below it, evidenced by the flatness of the sheet, pressed flush against the mattress.

Harry hears a wheezy, roaring sound flood his ears, and he wants it to shut up, to _shut up_ so he can fucking concentrate and figure this out, so he knows what to do to _fix this_ and the Healer is talking again and Harry can’t hear it, Harry can’t respond, because that roaring sound is the sound of him screaming in a way he never has before. That sound is him screaming in a way that makes him frighteningly unsure he’ll ever be able to stop.


	2. A Reason To Stay

 Draco wakes up as though he’d never been asleep. One moment, he is dreaming and the next, he is perfectly alert, aware of his location and circumstance, prepared for the day. It’s a useful habit to have formed in his line of work, but he knows that right now, it’s because he’s at the Manor.

He’s never been able to sleep comfortably here, since the War, so he doesn’t, usually. He has a small flat in Nice that he returns to between lengthy jobs, close enough to the ocean that he can smell salt on the air when the wind is blowing in the right direction. His furniture there has been carefully chosen so that none of it reminds him of the lushly heavy antiques that litter his ancestral home. The walls are a relaxed, eggshell white, the floors a golden, polished wood. His mother frowns at the soft pine he prefers; she calls it ‘common’ and makes disapproving noises about how easily it is marked, but he likes it, likes its colour and warmth, and how it picks up the sunlight that floods into his flat in the morning.

If he had it his way, he would never return to Wiltshire, let alone England. But as the Malfoy heir, he cannot deny his mother the home she has lived in for over forty years, and if he can no longer call this place ‘home’ by resting his head here occasionally throughout the year, the wards slowly begin to lock her out. So he endures the fitful nights of sleep in return for keeping her safe and in good health. Truly he does love the place, in that way that has been bred into his bones—it’s just that he also frequently fantasizes about burning it to the ground.

When he comes down for breakfast, he finds her waiting for him. Her hair is only now beginning to be shot through with strands of real silver, which he can tell bothers her, but she is too dignified about aging to perform something as crass as a hair-coloring charm. He thinks she looks lovely, anyhow. But then, he always has.

He drops a kiss onto her temple, smelling the scent of her powdery perfume, and takes a seat next to her, at the head of the table. He’s argued with her about sitting there, but she stubbornly refuses to sully the spot meant for the ‘head of the household’ with her presence. She says the wards will know, but Draco suspects it is primarily because she can’t presume to take his father’s place. To hear the elves tell it, she still sleeps on the right side of their massive bed, and Lucius has been dead for almost a dozen years.

“Good morning, Mother.”

“Mmm.” She tilts a loving smile to him. “Good morning. I didn’t realise you were here. Piddy had to inform me of your presence.”

Draco begins serving himself from the selection the elves have set out. “Yes, I’m sorry. My last job went longer than I had anticipated, and I realised I hadn’t slept here in… I believe, nine months?”

“Quite.” Narcissa takes a sip of her tea and looks at him levelly.

“And your job?” she enquires hesitantly, managing not to wrinkle her nose. “How was your last client?”

His mother hates that he works. He doesn’t need to, she has told him, with as much passion as she can muster in front of anyone. Although if he must, he should be seeking something more prestigious with his multitude of degrees. He could be running St. Mungo’s, she would sniff disdainfully, years ago before he’d startled her by telling her to sod off about it.

They do not often row, because he is usually more than willing to defer to her simply to make her happy, so she has learned that when he begins to grow angry at her persistence on a subject, her needling can push him too far, and will usually end up keeping him away for too long.

Draco takes a careful bite of his toast, smeared with butter and honey, then chases it with a sip of coffee, black. “He’s fine,” he says. “Better than.” 

He wishes he could be more enthusiastic, but he has long since learned not to waste it on her.

But she surprises him today. “It was a young boy this time, wasn’t it?”

Draco pauses and looks at her curiously before answering. “Yes, it was. Nine-year-old Muggle, car accident two years ago.”

Narcissa gives a light shudder. “Those are such terrible contraptions. Monique had the misfortune to ride in one once, and she has been traumatized since.”

“They can be,” Draco agrees, with no little amount of amusement. He owns one, himself, and loves driving. “But Muggles need to get from place to place somehow.”

“I suppose. But the boy? He’ll be all right?”

“Yes.” Draco is proud of this; Jacque is a sweet, shining sort of child, eager in the extreme, and had been a joy to work with. He thinks of the tears on Jacque’s face when he’d left yesterday, and makes a note to himself to remember to send a birthday present in a few weeks.

“So you don’t have any new clients lined up?” Narcissa questions delicately.

Ah. Draco can see where this is going, now. “Not officially, Mother, but I have several waiting on a list. I simply need to choose one. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer. A week at the most.”

“Are any of these clients in Britain?” The graceful arch of her eyebrows sweeps up challengingly.

Draco refuses the impulse to shift uncomfortably. He doesn’t work nearby. She knows this, knows that he comes home primarily for her. The Mark on his arm is faded now but still visible, and though most every witch and wizard across the Continent (and places much farther) understand the implications of it, he prefers to work with people to whom the war did not touch so close to home.

“No, Mother,” he tells her at length, hardening his voice slightly, gentling his tone with a conciliatory smile.

“Draco, darling…” She pauses, looking quite discomfited, which is so unlike her that Draco feels a flutter of anxiety in his stomach. She sighs. “You still refuse to read the papers, don’t you?”

He studies her for a moment. “There’s nothing of interest to me in them. I assume that if something happened to you, or if the press is making a nuisance of themselves, you would alert me so that I can take care of it.”

Narcissa drums her fingers on a table top in a rare, nervous gesture. “And if there were a case in London of particular interest to your line of work?”

Draco exhales. He reaches over and takes her fiddling hand, holding it tightly, assessing the differences in it. Her skin is finer, thinner than it used to be, but her grip is as warm and strong as ever under his.

“Mother,” he says quietly, gently. “I am not happy here. I will do my duty as heir, but I enjoy the life I have. You are always welcome at my flat when I’m not on a case. As a matter of fact, even when I am; you rarely take holidays in France anymore.”

Narcissa is silent for a moment, seeming to debate with herself, and then gives Draco a calm, accepting nod. “Very well.” Her lips curl up the slightest bit, and he can feel her affection. “Let it never be said I did not try everything at my disposal to keep you with me.”

Draco chuckles lightly, lifting her hand to press a kiss against the back of it, before he resumes eating his breakfast.

***

Draco is sifting through his files of applicants when the elf arrives. He looks up in surprise, eyes falling away from a particularly intriguing case wherein a wizard Splinched himself internally while Apparating. He’d asked not to be disturbed, and Piddy knows this, which accounts for the way she is wringing her hands and trying not to sob.

“It’s all right, Piddy,” he says wearily, removing his spectacles and setting them aside. “Please, don’t.”

She takes a shuddering breath. “Piddy is being very sorry, but Master Draco has visitors who request an audience and they are… most insistent.”

Draco can’t help looking at her oddly, as though she’s making it up. No one ever visits him here. When he sees Pansy, it’s always in France these days, and Blaise lives in Naples, not that either of them would know he was here. But no, Piddy’s barely restraining herself from twisting her ears in a bid to punish herself for interrupting him.

“And their names are?”

“Missus Granger-Weasley, and Mister Weasley,” she supplies, her voice still trembling. “They are in the drawing room.”

Intrigued, his sense of mild alarm fades. “Thank you. Please offer them refreshments and let them know I’ll be down momentarily.”

Nodding, she pops out of sight with a crack, and Draco takes a moment to compose himself. Suddenly he feels as though his clothes are misbuttoned; there is the sense that everything is slightly off-kilter. He rolls his sleeves down and casts a quick ironing charm to them, then schools his features into neutrality before heading down the stairs.

Granger and Weasley stand when he enters. Granger’s hands are tightly clasped in front of her, and there is a vague belligerence to Weasley’s stance, but neither of them is brandishing a wand, and so Draco doesn’t bother to pull his. He waves a hand to the sofa they had been sitting in and takes a seat across from them on another.

“Granger,” he greets evenly. “Weasley. What can I do for you?”

They sit back down and exchange a look that is filled with unspoken intent. Weasley opens his mouth and then closes it, just as Granger begins speaking. “We need your help.”

“I had assumed that,” Draco admits mildly. “Either that, or you were here to elicit some long-overdue revenge, but that doesn’t seem on par with what I know of either of you.”

“Yeah?” Weasley mutters. “And what do you know?”

“Relax, Weasley, it was a compliment,” Draco says smoothly. “That you aren’t the type to seek retribution for actions committed nearly two decades ago? I admit I could be wrong. Frankly, I know next to nothing, anymore. I didn’t even know for certain you had been married until my house-elf announced your last name, Granger. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Granger says in a tone he’s never heard from her before, lacking all of her former boisterous confidence. Her lips barely move, and she won’t meet his eyes, and he’s suddenly starkly aware that his lovely, psychopathic auntie tortured her across the hall from where they now sit.

His mouth dries, and he swallows. “Since you have yet to tell me what it is you need from me, let me take this opportunity to apologise, again, for my behaviour at school and… and beyond,” he adds, floundering a bit. “I know you both received my letters—I appreciated your response, Granger—but it is probably something I should have said in person a long time ago.”

Granger begins shaking her head halfway through his speech, her bushy hair dancing around her. “You’ve already apologised. We’ve all moved on. That’s not why we’re here today.”

“Care to educate me?” Draco asks carefully.

“You’re a Healer, yeah?” Weasley blurts out, eyes sparking with challenge.

Draco inclines his head, watching them warily. “I am, technically, yes, although I specialize in…”

“Physiotherapy,” Granger supplies, reaching into her bag to pull out a folder and hand it over to him. His hand closes over it automatically, but he doesn’t open it. “You use a combination of magical and muggle therapies and have an impeccable record with your former clients. And we need to commission your services.”

Weasley looks like he’s waiting for Draco to comment on the expense of that but, while it _is_ the first thing that comes to his mind, Draco, despite what the red-headed git seems to believe, has changed. Anyway, he feels more sympathetic than anything else, and wonders if they have a child who needs him.

He holds Granger’s brown gaze for a moment, then slowly looks down at the file on his lap and opens it. There is no name attached, simply a parchment with a diagnostic list and he takes out his wand to tap each item in turn. They light up, flashing information in front of him, beginning nearly a year prior.

**_Patient sustained heavy curse damage to the right leg above knee. Severing of spinal column between discs S1 and L5._ **

**_Patient in a magically-induced coma for 79 days while life-saving and healing procedures commenced. Amputation of right leg below femur. Spine repaired with unknown prognosis._ **

**_Patient retains near-complete sensory capabilities. Incomplete anterior and posterior paraplegia._ **

Heart thrumming hard in each of his pulse points, Draco puts down the list—he can go over the rest, later—and picks up the two muggle x-rays, holding them up to the light side-by side. Through the gray screen and the blur of organs, he finds himself wincing at the amount of damage he can see in the first x-ray; the cord is almost completely severed, the nerves a bundle of mush, the discs herniated badly. The second x-ray shows the repair, and quite well done, at that. The discs have been recreated into a graceful arch down to the tailbone, knit back together with magic, the spine reattached into a loose, upside-down question mark. The nerves, well…

His hands are shaking when he puts them down. Granger is watching him avidly, holding her breath, and Draco inhales for a long minute through his nose. “Potter?”

“You really didn’t know?” Weasley scoffs incredulously. Draco bristles and glares at him.

“Ron.” Granger’s voice is firm. “I need you to wait for me outside, please.”

Weasley looks regretful. He shoots Draco a distrustful glance. “’Mione.”

“Please,” she says quietly, but it’s not a request. “I’m fine.”

With a disgruntled huff, Weasley gets up and marches out of the room. A moment later, Draco hears the front doors close behind him. Granger brushes the hair out of her face tiredly.

“There’s a Healer in Scotland who thinks Harry is a good candidate for a new magical prosthesis for his leg,” she says after a beat when Draco doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know if he can. “A Dr. Marsh? He referred us to you, but you’re hard to find.”

“I work intimately with my patients,” Draco supplies numbly, “And am usually on a case. I don’t give out their addresses.”

“I see.” Granger looks at him steadily. “Then it’s a good thing we caught you in between them, isn’t it?” Draco looks away. He doesn’t know how to process what he’s just learned, let alone what she’s asking him to do.

“Does he know? That you’re asking me?”

“No. Harry has been difficult,” she explains, stumbling a little over her word choice. “The doctors say that with the right sort of therapy, there’s a good chance he would walk again, but the loss of his leg has changed him. I think he’s trying to kill himself,” she finishes bleakly. 

Draco jerks his eyes back to her, blood thundering through his brain. “What?”

“I don’t mean…” Granger sighs heavily. “Not actively. But he’s… There’s no hope in him. He’s different. He doesn’t believe he can ever have the life he once did.”

Draco licks his lips. He reaches out and takes a glass of water from the tray of refreshments Piddy has set out, and swallows most of it in one go, wiping his mouth rudely with the back of his hand when he’s finished. He thinks of the x-rays. Really, very beautiful work, and yet, with spinal injuries… “He may not.”

“But he’ll have _something_ ,” she insists passionately, pleading with her eyes. “So what if he’s not an Auror anymore? So what if he can’t ride a broom again? _So what_?”

Draco purses his lips. “It’s not that I disagree, but there is a level of grief that comes with losing a limb or the use of one’s legs that someone who has not experienced it, or who does not work with it every day, can’t understand. I can see that you want Potter to be happy, but I’m not a Mind-Healer. I can only help his body to do what it is capable of doing, and even then, only with his willingness to follow my regimen.”

“I’m Harry’s medical and legal proxy,” she announces lowly. “I want to hire you for the duration.” When Draco doesn’t respond, she adds, “You owe Harry a Life-Debt.”

Draco shakes his head at her, mouth tightening. “Which _you_ may not invoke,” he says, voice quiet.  Her eyes brim with tears, and he changes tactics. “Tell me about his progress.”

Startled, Granger blinks for a second. “Oh. When he first woke up, there was some sensation from the hips down, particularly with enough pressure or with extreme temperatures. Later, with regular physical therapy, near-full feeling came back. He had phantom pains in his missing limb, rather bad I gather, though he won’t talk to us about them, so maybe they’ve faded. When the physical therapy didn’t much help his ability to move beyond the occasional wiggle of his big toe, he quit. He’s fired two in-home mediwitches so far.”

Exasperated, Draco barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Potter quit after only six months of therapy? He knows patients who have worked for five years to retain minimal mobility.

“His magic?” Draco asks. “Um. It’s—ah, he’s actually quite weak, lately. When he woke up, it was better; in fact, they couldn’t keep him in the coma because his magic kept fighting it. But the last couple of months….”

“It’s like regular muscle atrophy,” Draco informs her. “When one opts not to use their magic, particularly in a depression or after a severe physical illness or injury, the power behind it can fade temporarily. Does he use a catheter? Have regular bowel movements? Can he bathe himself? Loss of sexual function?”

Granger pinks up a bit, but answers his questions steadily. “He no longer uses a catheter, and can feel when his bladder is full… Most of the time. I’m not sure of the regularity of his bowel movements, but I know he no longer needs an aid when he sleeps. He can bathe himself; we had a special shower and bath installed, but it’s fairly difficult for him to move and I’m pretty sure he mainly uses a _Scourgify_. As for loss of sexual function…” She bites her lip. “Yes, I believe so, but I don’t know how much of it may be psychosomatic. I’ve never asked if he can… If he still…”

Draco cuts her off. “I understand. Does he have a house-elf? Is his home outfitted with equipment that can be used in physical therapy?”

“No to the house-elf; Kreacher died about eight years back. I didn’t push him on it, then, but he refuses to get a new one now, which would be helpful,” she murmurs, surprising Draco. Hadn’t she had a club about Elfish rights? “We have the equipment. Are you thinking of saying yes?”

“Granger.” Draco gives her a faint, mocking smile. “It was never in question that I would say no.”

She sags in relief. “What do you need from me? Dr. Marsh explained your fees. We have enough.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I…” She stalls, looking at him askance, and Draco feels his cheeks heat a touch as he drops his gaze from hers. “Are you saying you’re waving your fee?”

“Yes. As you said, I owe Potter quite a bit,” Draco sighs. “I suppose we all do.”

“I still want to pay you,” she says abruptly.

“There’s really no need.”

“There is if you decide to duck out of the contract,” she says grimly.

Draco regards her for a moment, and then Summons his standard contract from his room. “Quill, please?”

Granger hands him one, her eyebrows knitting together. Draco takes a minute to adjust a couple of things. He changes the contract expiration from six to nine months, and crosses off his standard fees, initialling the changes before signing at the bottom. He passes it over to her.

“Magically binding. I can only leave before nine months if the goals we’ve set in place have been completed, or if you terminate my employment.” He’s astonished when she doesn’t actually read the contract before scribbling her name beneath his; he’d thought her more cautious than that. Then he thinks of watching her and Potter and Weasley in fifth year, and the way she used to look at her barmy friends when the mask of her overwhelming, know-it-all intelligence would fall off; he remembers the fierce, protective affection that he used to feel so jealous of.

Draco clears his throat. “You’ll want to read that more fully when you have time. First, you just gave me complete access to his house and whatever portion of his funds I may need in his rehabilitation. Secondly, there is a clause that implicitly states that there is to be no interference between me and my client once we begin our sessions. Meaning, Granger,” he says slowly, so he knows she understands, “You will not have a say in how I treat him, be it physically, mentally, or emotionally. You will not be able to interrupt my work in any way without direct permission from me, even if he is telling you it’s okay. I, in turn, will not cause him any pain that is not directly related and beneficial to his recovery. In any way. I think you’ll enjoy the clause about what happens to me if I do. It also allows for the use of non-invasive Legilimency—meaning all information looked at will be specific in regards to his care—at my discretion.”

Granger bites her lip, eyes narrowing. “He won’t like that.”

“I daresay he won’t like any of this, if his treatment of previous caretakers is any indication,” Draco points out, giving a lazy shrug. “I’d be more concerned about Weasley. He doesn’t seem well-pleased.”

“He’s not,” she admits ruefully, but there’s a steady feeling of hope surrounding her now, so different from when he first saw her again. “He doesn’t trust you, but you come the most highly recommended, and, well, things between him and Harry are… hard.”

“In what way?” When she hesitates, Draco prods, “It can only help me to know.”

“Harry sustained the curse when jumping in front of Ron to protect him and an injured little girl Ron was carrying. He insists he’s not angry, but… Well, he is. And Ron feels responsible, although there’s no way he could have known,” she adds quietly. “I don’t know if it makes it better or worse for him that Ron was completely unhurt.”

“Better, of course, although I’m sure Potter is unaware of that. He always was a bit thick, anyway. And the little girl?”

Granger looks away. “When Harry knocked them over, the stasis charm keeping her wounds in check was broken.” She takes a deep breath. “She died.”

Draco stands fluidly, suddenly ready for the meeting to be over. Granger follows him, and takes his extended hand after a second’s pause. “Everything is in his files? I expect I don’t need anything prior to 2000, but you’ve included medical records, habits, work history, Floo address?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll see you in two days, at noon. Please be sure to add me to his wards,” he tells her, breaking their handshake.

“Thank you. Draco.” She adds his name softly, as though granting him absolution with it, and something odd twists in his chest.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Hermione.”

***

Draco steps out of the Floo and surveys the flat.

He’s mildly relieved to see the décor is rather tasteful; there are potted plants dotting the room, lending to an air of freshness, and the furniture is high end, but low-slung and cosy for all its expense. There are lush, moving landscapes on the walls, and he observes a telly in the corner. A long built-in bookcase encompasses a whole wall, and it is stuffed with books but for one shelf filled with a lovely selection of carefully preserved Snitches on display, and one section entirely comprised of photographs. Potter with Weasley and Granger, laughing. Potter grinning like a loon surrounded by a clump of equally happy red-heads. Potter with a little boy with blue hair on his lap. Lovegood, blowing out birthday candles that turn into butterflies and drift off. A picture of Ginevra Weasley posing with the rest of the Harpies. A picture of Longbottom dancing with a girl in formal wedding robes who Draco vaguely recognises but can’t place. Two children, a boy and a girl, both with flaming hair and brown eyes, grinning up into the camera and eating ice cream. Potter flying, eyes alight. Potter in full uniform, arms slung around two other Aurors.

Draco looks over to Hermione, who has risen from the sofa and is watching him look at the photographs. “He had a very full life.”

“Yes.” Her eyes linger on the shelf wistfully.

“All right, then.” Draco takes a deep breath. “Let’s get him back to it.”

“He’s still asleep.” Hermione gives him a tentative smile. “Would you like some tea?”

“Still asleep? It’s noon.”

She hesitates. “He doesn’t sleep well.”

Draco snorts. “Of course not, if he’s sleeping until noon every day. Show me his room.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good…” she trails off when she sees the look on Draco’s face. “Come with me.”

He follows her to a staircase that has been outfitted with state-of-the-art magical chair. He’s seen them in both muggle and wizarding homes, of course, but the magical version simply encapsulates the wheelchair and moves the user up and down the steps in a quicker, smoother fashion. Draco wishes frequently he was allowed to break the Statute of Secrecy for some of his clients.

When they reach the landing, there’s a wide hallway. She gestures to a room on his left, explaining that this is where they’ve set up his therapeutic equipment, and Draco nods. He’ll check it out later, and order any additions needed then. She stops near the end of the hall, where two doors on either side face each other.

“This is him,” she says, gesturing one of them, but making no move to open it.

Draco sighs. “I’m here at your bequest, Granger. Bloody get on with it, if you please.”

Hermione squares her shoulders, then opens the door.

A sour smell assaults Draco’s nose; the room is dim and musty, so unlike what he’s seen of the rest of the house which is bright and clean and cheerful. Potter lays covered in the middle of a massive bed, twisted unnaturally, his legs flat and his torso turned on its side. His body is bony, his face gaunt and darkly shadowed with stubble over his jaw. It’s obviously been a long time since he’s washed his hair, judging from the way it sticks to his skull and the odour in the room. Draco looks at him in the darkness for a moment and then marches over to the curtains and snaps them open, causing dust to fly everywhere. Potter blinks in the sudden light, startled. His face has a grey cast, but his eyes are still the same startling green.

“Hermione?”

“Here, Harry.” She hands him his glasses, which he shoves onto the bridge of his nose. “I’ve hired you a new in-home physiotherapist.”

“I don’t need one, I told you th—” he begins, his voice low and angry. Then his eyes fall on Draco, standing near the window patiently, and his whole countenance tightens with fury. “No. Get out.”

“Good to see you, too, Potter.”

“Get the _fuck_ out of my house! What the _hell_ were you thinking, Hermione. Get him the fuck out of here!” Potter says, his voice rising until he’s yelling.

Hermione shrinks away, but doesn’t stop looking at him. “No.”

“What?”

He turns back to her, incredulous. “This is my home!”

She takes a fortifying breath. “And I’m your medical and legal proxy since you’re no longer fit to take care of yourself. He stays.”

Draco admires her for a moment, then turns to watch Potter’s mouth work wordlessly, all speech escaping him in his anger. “Then you get out, too. I’ll contact my solicitor in the morning.”

“You will not,” she huffs irritably. “You never even leave the flat. Just… just try, Harry.”

“Fine,” he capitulates out of nowhere. “Bring back the last one. I’ll give her a try. There’s no way I’m working with a Death Eater,” he adds nastily, looking at Draco with something like triumph.

Draco doesn’t even flinch; he’d been expecting something like that. He smiles benignly and arches an eyebrow. “Scared, Potter?”

“Fuck off, Malfoy.”

“Mmm. I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve signed a magically binding agreement with Granger here. You don’t really want her to forfeit all of the money she’s put in to this, do you?”

Harry shoots her a furious, doubtful look. “I’ll replace it.”

Hermione, bless her, latches on to the lie easily. “You can’t. I won’t take your money, and the contract stipulates that the money is to come from mine and Ron’s earnings alone. He can’t leave unless I fire him, and if I fire him he keeps everything we’ve paid him in advance.”  She bites her lip, and Draco respects her nerve.  She’s convincing enough that he’d believe it if he didn’t know otherwise. “It’s our life savings, Harry.”

Potter’s face goes hard and mean. “Then you just wasted it. I want him out of my flat right now.”

“There’s an easier way to solve this,” Draco interjects smoothly. “There’s the matter of the duel in the contract?”

“Duel?” Potter says, looking at him hatefully.

“Duel,” Draco repeats. “You may challenge me to a duel to win back rights to your home, neutralizing the contract. On a one time basis, only, of course.”

“I can challenge you?” Potter’s laugh is cutting and high-pitched. “I’m a cripple.”

Draco nods to his arm. “You have a wand, you can move your arm. You can speak.”

“I can’t move, you filthy—”

“Then I won’t, either,” Draco interrupts, sitting in an upholstered chair across from the bed. He crosses his legs casually and pulls his wand. Eighteen years later and he still understands Potter enough to know what buttons to push. “Your point, I leave. No harm. My point, you work with me. First one to successfully glance the other with a Stinging Hex wins.”

“I.” Potter stops, then reaches over with effort and grabs his wand. “I challenge you to a duel, then.”

“Wonderful. Granger, count us down?”

Hermione is looking at Draco dubiously, but counts backwards from three. As soon as she reaches one, Potter sends out a hex that Draco deflects easily. He returns it, and is blocked by Potter’s shield. But as Potter scrambles to send another, his shield flickers, drops, and Draco lashes out, catching Potter across the cheek while ducking his own head to the side to avoid a rushing burst of magic. The whole thing takes about ten seconds, and Draco is oddly disappointed to see Potter with so little fight left in him. He pockets his wand.

Potter looks shocked, utterly shocked in a way that Draco would have taken deep delight from twenty years ago. His hollowed face is greasy with sweat from their small exertion, and his eyes, when they turn to Draco, are flat and petulant. He slowly rotates his head to Hermione and pins her with an angry gaze.

“Fine. I’ll let him try. Put him in the attic guest room, if you must, and then I want you to leave. I don’t want to see you.”

Even Draco wants to cringe. Hermione’s eyes are wounded. She swallows hard. “If you’ll follow me, Draco.”

“No, thank you,” he says politely. “The room across the hall is a bedroom, yes?”

Hermione nods in assent. “I’ll take that one, please,” he requests.

“Yeah, like I’m going to be able to sleep across from a Death Eater,” Potter says snidely.

“Oh, but you’ll trust me not to come downstairs and murder you in the middle of the night if I’m on the level above?” Draco smirks.

“Whatever.” Potter stares down sullenly. He looks like he wants to cry but refuses to allow himself the luxury. It’d probably be better for him if he did.

Draco wonders who this man is. If nothing else, he’d always considered Potter resilient.

Where is the wizard who’d defeated the Dark Lord with a stolen wand?

***

Draco settles in after assuring Hermione that everything will be fine and allows Potter some space for a few hours.

The room he’s appointed himself is not overly large, but its furniture—a bed, wardrobe, desk and chair—is just as tasteful and comfortable as that of the rest of the flat and smells a great deal better than Potter’s room, thank Merlin. There’s an attached en suite, with a large tub and a separate shower, each with sterling fixtures. He unshrinks his trunk and flicks his wand, allowing his clothing and toiletries to move to their designated areas, and then moves on to peruse the rest of the flat.

His first stop is the therapy room that Hermione pointed out, and he’s reluctantly impressed. There is a deep soaking whirlpool spa, lined with medicinal potions designed to aid in muscle relaxation and blood flow, arm and leg-weights (entirely Muggle, but really, they work best in these circumstances), a set of parallel bars to aid walking, surrounded by several cushioning charms so strong he can feel them like a buffer as he walks past, and a chair outfitted with electrical muscle stimulation. He can use his wand to stimulate Potter’s muscles, but the chair is a nice touch; it makes things simpler. There is also a high, padded table for flexibility training.

He makes his way back downstairs and explores it briefly. There’s a small loo off the living room, not yet outfitted for Potter’s disability, and an office that is covered in a fine layer of dust. He finds the kitchen, stocked with sweets of all kinds, pre-packaged foods and things to rot the teeth. Potter’s ice box is practically empty.  Draco summarily throws all of the junk out, except for a container of what looks to be homemade treacle tarts.

He casts a quick glamour to his face, checks to make sure that he has some Muggle money on him, and heads out.

Fortunately, Potter lives on Tottenham Court Road, which is on the outskirts of Wizarding London, so it’s a short walk to a nearby Tesco to procure groceries. Draco loads up on fruits and vegetables, high protein, low-fat meats, cheeses and breads, and several other basics that Piddy, who will be cooking for them, can work with. He finds an alley and shrinks down his loot, whistling as he brings it back to Potter’s flat, then puts everything in its rightful place.

He takes an extra few minutes to reorganize Potter’s kitchen to his preferences. Though the room is cheerful and bright and clean, he suspects that this will irritate Potter enough to instigate another argument, which is a much better reaction than the lifeless acceptance on his face before Draco had left his room.

Draco feels a strange, intense emotion sweep over him as he remembers it, strong enough that it makes his knees go weak. He sits down in one of the chairs at the table, and slowly recognises the emotion as grief.

When he’d looked at the first x-ray and understood that Hermione had come to get him to help Potter, there was a single moment where nothing in his world had made sense. He’d managed to push that aside to deal with the matter at hand by reminding himself that they had just been two young, scared, and often angry boys fighting for opposite sides. His memories of Potter are tinged with a confusing whirl of loathing and resentment and admiration and fear and attraction, and though Potter had spoken at his trial, and Draco had sent a note apologising and thanking him, there was no love lost between them. So, it’s with great difficulty that he processes the sadness filling him.

Part of him regrets taking this case, but there was never another option for him, not really.

Draco takes another minute to let himself feel the pain and the pity and the frustration that will soon be dealt out to him in spades, before clearing his thoughts and resuming his work.

Sentimentality will not help here, this much he knows. It rarely works with any client, but his history with Potter is too tangled to allow for complex emotions to have any place in his work. When he’s finished, he checks the clock. It’s half-four, and he suspects Potter must be getting hungry, not that you would know he ever eats to look at him.

Draco heads back upstairs, gives Potter’s door two sharp raps with his knuckles and doesn’t wait to be invited before barging in. Potter looks at him obstinately, then back down at the book he’s holding, although Draco wonders if he was actually reading it or if he picked it up when he heard Draco coming up the stairs; his glasses are off, and there are deep violet circles under his eyes.

“What do you want?” he spits.

“Dinner is soon.”

“I’m not hungry right now,” Potter mutters, not looking up.

Draco chuckles. “It’s not now, it’s soon. And you will be. As good a listener as ever, I see,” he mocks gently, heading to Potter’s loo to check out the surroundings.

There are pulleys to help him get in and out of the tub, and there’s a large shower with a handicap seat. Good. He starts the taps on the bath; the water comes out colourful and foamy, and checks his cabinet. There is a muscle-relaxing potion like the one in the therapy room, and he adds a good dose of it to the water before heading back out.

Potter finally looks at him again, white with powerless rage.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands.

“Drawing a bath. I thought you didn’t sustain any brain damage.” he adds thoughtfully. “Hm. Anyway, you certainly need one.”

“I don’t want to take a bath.”

“Too bad. Part of the regimen. Besides which, you reek. I’m fairly certain the smell in this room is coming directly from you,” Draco tells him.

Potter’s hands curl into fists. “I’m not going to.”

“You are,” Draco tells him firmly. “What’s more, I’m going to help you, so you’d better get used to that bit right now.”

“Want to see my cock, Malfoy?” Potter says rudely. “Ron always said you had a thing about me.”

“Probably no more of one than you had about me,” Draco says, deflecting. He casually strolls over and picks up Potter’s wand from the nightstand, tucking it into the pocket of his trousers.

“Hey! Give that back!”

“It’s not like you use it for much beyond—what? Summoning food? Casting weak cleaning charms over yourself?” Draco pulls out his own wand and points. “Would you prefer to undress yourself, or do you need help?”

“Fuck you,” he hisses, holding his arms over his chest in a protective fashion.

“Fine then, I’ll do it.” Draco Vanishes Potter’s filthy pyjamas, leaving him naked under the sheet, ignoring Potter’s roar of protest.

The book Potter is holding suddenly sails at him, and he ducks to the side gracefully, hearing it bang against the far wall.

He sighs, then sits down on the edge of the bed and waits for Potter to raise his eyes. “Look, Potter. I want you to understand something about me. I may be very much who I used to be, but I am also not that boy at all. You won’t be able to provoke me with petty temper tantrums. Furthermore, I can guess from your surprise at my presence that Hermione did not explain my background fully to you. I am well trained; the best of the best. If someone can get you walking again, it’s me. I just need the smallest bit of cooperation from you.”

Hope flickers, brief and shining, in the green of Potter’s eyes before bitterness dulls it. “You think just as highly of yourself as you always have, Malfoy.”

“I think that way because I get results. I’m happy to furnish you with the names of former clients who can attest to my success rate. Now,” he says, more gently. “You use cleaning charms because it’s difficult to get into the tub, right?”

Potter’s jaw tightens. “The wheelchair, too,” he says after a long pause.

“It takes practice and commitment,” Draco says. “Both of which I know you’re good for. But until then, I’ll just carry you.”

“Malfoy,” Potter all but growls in warning.

“I have been doing this for a dozen years, and have had thirty-two long-term clients. Eighteen of them male. Nudity doesn’t shock or titillate me under these circumstances, nor does it disgust me. Come on now, up you get.”  He could easily levitate the other man, but Draco has learned that one of the quickest ways to get a patient to trust him is to make sure they understand the full extent of the closeness they'll end up sharing.  He stands and leans down, tucking his arms under Potter’s thighs and behind his waist, lifting him as swiftly and easily as he would a child.

Potter’s body may be wasted, but he is still somehow sturdy in Draco’s arms, and he clings to Draco for a startled moment before stiffening up as Draco carries him to the bathroom. Setting Potter down carefully, still covered by his sheet, on the top of the closed toilet seat, he makes sure he’s steady and checks the temperature of the water before turning off the taps.

Potter clings to the sheet when Draco picks him up again. Draco raises an eyebrow but allows it, soaking his sleeves as he lowers Potter gently into the water.

“Now what?” Potter sneers as Draco looks down at him. “Do you want to wash my bum, too?”

“Not particularly,” Draco says mildly. “But I will, if you have trouble reaching it on your own. Do you?”

“Just… get out,” Potter says wearily.

Draco nods. “Call me when you’re finished.”

He gives Potter some privacy, waiting until the silence in the bathroom becomes a subtle splashing sound that indicates movement. Then he changes Potter’s sheets efficiently, casts a scouring cleaning charm around the room that makes it smell like an orchard, and opens the window for good measure, sitting on the upholstered chair when he’s finished.

Fifteen minutes later, Potter grunts out his name, and Draco heads back in. Potter looks clean, hair still dripping, sheet clinging to the lines of his withered legs. Draco unstoppers the water, then bends and carefully lifts Potter up, sitting him back on the toilet as rivulets of water stream down him and onto the floor, creating a puddle.

He looks at Potter evenly. “I’m going to see them eventually, you know.”

Potter’s hands tighten on the sheet and then loosen. His face goes carefully blank and he turns his head to the side as Draco pries the soaking fabric away and gets his first glimpse. Draco’s eyes are drawn to his prick, nestled flaccidly among a nest of riotous black curls at his groin, but he looks lower to assess Potter’s legs. His left looks all right; there’s barely any muscle definition, and his kneecap stands out like a ball, but that’s no surprise. His right thigh is just as withered. Where the knee should be, there’s simply well-healed skin, drawn tight around the stump of bone.

Draco inspects it carefully as he hands Potter a towel with which to dry himself.

“I bet you’re loving this,” Potter mutters tiredly, rubbing the terrycloth over himself roughly. “You should take a picture too; sell it to The _Prophet_. The Boy Who Lived to Be A Cripple.”

Draco snorts. “The Boy Who Lived to Feel Sorry For Himself.”

Potter glares at him. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you know that I’m not going to rise to your baiting, and it makes you uncomfortable,” Draco comments.

Potter’s lips tighten, but he doesn’t respond. When he’s fully dry, Draco casts another drying charm on Potter’s hair and the floor, another on himself for good measure and hands Potter back his wand.

Potter glances at him uncertainly. “You’re not going to keep it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t hex me when I first picked you up,” Draco says with amusement. He hesitates. “Do you need to use the loo?”

Potter’s brows knit. He seems to consider staying silent for a moment before saying in a grudging way, “I don’t think so.”

“All right.” Draco Summons the clothes he’s picked out for Potter. He’s seen it in too many clients; depression makes it difficult to motivate oneself into doing the most rudimentary of things, such as putting on fresh clothing; alternatively, making small gestures to make the day as normal as possible can be the first step in getting out of said depression for some.

The clothing he’s picked are not to his personal taste. But the pair of cotton joggers and clean t-shirt should be loose-fitting and comfortable, which is important.

Potter blinks down at the clothing as though it has some hidden meaning. Draco doesn’t allow himself to roll his eyes as the other man continues staring down at it in silence. He takes the bottoms and kneels down, working the leg over Potter’s left foot and sliding them up, then inserting his right thigh into the waistband. He glances up at Potter.

“Lean forward onto me?” Surprisingly, Potter does, and Draco wraps an arm around his waist to lift him slightly, clearing room to tug up the waistband over Potter’s arse. He follows Potter’s flinty eyes to the lax material hanging limply from his missing knee, pulls his wand, and transfigures the fit until the right leg of the bottoms is shortened to the appropriate length and sealed closed at the end. There is a time and place to begin working on the acceptance of one’s body after a disfiguring accident, and Draco knows that now is neither. He hands Potter the t-shirt. “You can do this, I expect?”

Potter’s voice is wry. “I could have done the rest, too.”

“Then start doing it,” Draco snaps to cover his embarrassment over making such a rookie mistake as making an assumption that a client needs help with simple tasks without asking.

They eat a quiet, strained dinner of roasted chicken in Potter’s room. As it’s the first day, Draco is willing to permit this, knowing how much Potter will hate him come the morning. But his company is not all unpleasant. He comments in a desultory way about how good the food is, and Draco explains about Piddy. When Draco mentions the book Potter had been reading earlier in the afternoon, Potter gets a shifty look on his face before admitting that it’s a Muggle science-fiction, as though he expects Draco to flash his Dark Mark and begin performing Blood Magic.

After dinner, he helps Potter to the loo and sits in Potter’s chair outside for over thirty minutes. Paralyzed parties often have trouble using the restroom, even when they can sense they need to use the facilities. Draco considers checking to see if he needs help as he would another client, but doesn’t particularly want Potter to hex him bald or some such nonsense, and so he leaves it. When Potter is finished, he rolls out on his wheelchair, looking flushed and embarrassed to find Draco still waiting for him.

Draco raises an eyebrow, helps him into bed—another thing Potter should definitely not get used to—and bids him goodnight. He escapes to his room with a sigh of relief.

In the same way that he knows which buttons to push to get a response from the other man, Potter can instinctively garner one from him simply with his presence.

Undoubtedly, Potter is the strongest and most skilled wizard Draco has ever known beyond Dumbledore or the Dark Lord, and yet he seems determined to remain a shell of himself if he cannot fully be who he once was.

Draco falls asleep hard, and dreams of dark things.

***

Counterpoint: Harry

Harry exists in a vacuum of darkness these days. His mind feels like it’s been Obliviated, he is so far from himself. Since waking up, since seeing his lack of leg collapse all of his expectations for the life he was going to have, he feels a distinct, unbearable distance from the man everyone thinks of him as: the survivor, the hero, the friend. He nurses his bitterness because it’s the only thing that feels real to him anymore; it stands out in stark relief, mingling well with his constant pain.

So when Malfoy comes to stay, Harry is surprised to find that the bitterness, for once, feels like home.

It’s not that Harry hates Malfoy anymore. He doesn’t hate Hermione, or Ron, except that… Well, he hates everyone.

He thinks of his life a year ago; his startlingly happy life, the life he’d never expected to be able to build for himself as a teenager constantly in battle for his life and the lives of those he’d loved. He knows he should get over it, tells himself so every day, but his missing limb screams at him every time he looks at it, accusatory in its absence, and he wonders bitterly that he gave up the last sixteen years just to be reduced to this: a mangled collection of skin and bone.

He keeps expecting Malfoy to lord it over him, and is consistently surprised when the other man doesn’t. Perhaps it’s just that he doesn’t _need_ to, because Malfoy is whole and healthy and beautiful, taller and broader than he used to be, but his muscles are lean and useful. His hair is shorter now, closely cropped on the sides and back, but still the same shocking white-blond, although he’s no longer as pale as he once was. He’s tan now, golden and glowing, but his eyes are still cool grey.

Most importantly, he’s able to _do_ something he considers meaningful and maybe even enjoyable. He has a career he loves like Harry used to, and the bitterness tastes like bile in his throat when he realises that, for the first time in his life, he actually envies Malfoy.

Malfoy, who is unnervingly calm in the face of Harry’s ire, who refuses to make fun of the disgusting mess of his legs. Malfoy who dresses him as though he’s a child, but does so with such a careful, thoughtful expression that even Harry cannot find fault with it.

When Malfoy finally leaves him alone at the end of the night, Harry exhales for the first time in what feels like hours. His body feels tight and confusing; he wants to rage and throw things at the other man, wants to refuse his aid.

But there was a moment when Malfoy seemed so assured, so fucking confident that he could help, that Harry had been dazed with the force of his own longing, but couldn’t bring himself to ask if that help would be able to make him whole again.

He didn’t think he could stand hearing the word no.


	3. Bend

Draco has been asleep for a few hours when he hears a muffled groan coming from across the hall. He rubs his eyes and throws on a dressing gown before padding, barefoot, to Potter’s closed door. He tries to open it, but the knob won’t budge; the idiot has warded it against him. Reluctant amusement coils in his belly as he unlocks it with a simple incantation. Really, his contract covers everything.

When he comes in, Potter is still clearly asleep. His hair is wild and dark around his face, his expression a contorted grimace of discomfort as his torso twists uncomfortably. Draco watches him for a moment, convinced Potter is having a nightmare before the repeated, abortive motion Potter keeps making catches his attention.

He observes for a few moments before smiling with relief. No wonder Potter has been sleeping so badly at night; in addition to his poor diet and lack of exercise, Potter must usually fall asleep on his back, but is the kind to wake in the mornings on his stomach or side. He’s seen it in more than one client; restless sleep on account of immobility.

Draco steps closer to the bed and waits for Potter to make his rolling motion again. When he does, Draco slides his arms under Potter’s hips and shifts him until he’s on his side. He adjusts the position of his legs, draping his half-limb over his full one until Potter’s face reads of respite and comfort. Draco watches as he slowly relaxes into deep sleep.

Draco pads out of the room, keeping Potter’s door cracked in case he should be needed again.

***

The morning dawns bright for February, and Draco wakes with the sun as he does every morning. He dresses simply, in cotton trousers and a t-shirt, as today is the first day of real exertion on his part; Potter gets another few weeks of relative rest while Draco does most of the work before Draco’s plans will engage him further, after which Potter will hate him as much as he ever has—maybe more.

He heads down to the kitchen and fixes himself a cup of strong tea to combat the sleepless night; he’d gotten up two additional times to help Potter adjust position. He’s gotten used to lack of sleep throughout the night—too many of his clients need him for one reason or another in the wee hours—and so relies on his morning tea as a way to get through the day.

When Piddy arrives, he gives her instruction on the meal, downs a plate of beans on toast, and heads up to Potter’s room with a tray.

Potter is still asleep. Draco sets down the tray and opens the curtains.

“Potter!” he barks. “Wake the bloody fuck up!”

Potter’s eyes snap open as though he’s under attack; he reaches for and brandishes his wand before wakefulness hits him, and then slumps back against the pillow. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

“You really should insist on reading that contract Granger signed,” Draco chides cheerfully. “You are not allowed to ward me against any access to you while I’m under her employ.”

Outraged, Potter stares at him. “This is my home!” he sputters. “You can’t be allowed to curb my magic in my own home, even if you were strong enough to, which I very much doubt.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I’m not trying to curb your magic. I unlocked a door. It’s practically a first year spell, Potter; you simply can’t use it against me.”

“I’m seriously speaking to my solicitor today,” he grits out. “I was sleeping and it’s too early for this. Go away.”

“Mm. And how did you sleep?”

Potter opens his mouth to respond, then falls silent, surprise sweeping over his face.

“Not badly,” he allows slowly, casting a suspicious look in Draco’s direction. “Did you charm me or something?”

“I’m not so crass as that, Potter,” Draco says loftily. “And you’ll sleep even better tonight; we have a full day ahead of us. Now.” He indicates the tray. “Eat up.”

Potter looks over at the tray with distaste. “I want doughnuts.”

“No,” Draco says flatly, arching an eyebrow.

“I’m not eating this.”

“It’s a perfectly healthy breakfast, Potter.” Which it is; two scrambled egg whites with a side of turkey bacon and small scoop of beans on dried toast, half a grapefruit and a small glass of milk, next to three small potion bottles. “It’s high in protein and complex carbohydrates for energy. The potions are infused with vitamins and minerals, as well as elements to facilitate the building of healthy muscle. Eat.” 

With an angry sigh, Potter swallows the potions in succession, making a face at the taste of them, and then looks at Draco defiantly. His lip curls. “I hate grapefruit.”

“I hate working with self-entitled prats,” Draco returns, softening his words with a smile. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

Potter looks confused for a moment. “I want coffee.”

“Fine,” Draco capitulates simply. “If you finish your tray, I’ll let you have a cup of coffee.”

“You’ll _let_ me have?” he bursts out furiously. “I’m thirty-five years old! I can decide what I have to eat!”

Draco sighs. “And I’m fine with that, after you’ve reached a healthy body weight and function. That shit you’ve been eating is only detrimental to your progress. I doubt you ate like that when you were on active duty, did you?”'

“Like that matters now,” Potter mutters bitterly.

“It will.”

Potter’s eyes flicker to him warily, and then away. He slowly lifts up his fork and begins eating. When he’s three-quarters done, he pushes the tray away, and Draco hesitates before taking it off his lap and heading back downstairs. He returns with the promised coffee, which Potter drinks down with unholy desire, groaning into it like a lover.

Draco shifts in his seat, trying not to listen.

Unlike the previous night, he helps Potter into the chair instead of carrying him into the restroom. Through the door, he can hear the difficulty Potter has shifting from the wheelchair to the toilet seat, but Draco stays firmly seated and doesn’t offer assistance. Potter has allowed himself to become far too dependent on others for basic tasks, which can’t have helped his self-esteem any.

Draco waits, making up Potter’s bed with a quick swish of his wand, and picks out a fresh set of clothing. Potter makes short work of his business and rolls out, still wearing his rumpled clothes from the previous night.

Draco silently hands him a clean pair of pants, which Potter stares at for a moment. “Um. Malfoy?”

Draco sniffs. “I’m not out for your virtue. You’re not wearing any unless you put some on last night after I dressed you. You’ll need them. Please disrobe and put them on.”

Potter unexpectedly makes no fuss, but raises a single eyebrow until Draco chuckles a bit and turns around. After a few minutes, he mumbles, “I’m done.”

Draco turns around, stops. It is entirely unprofessional of him, he knows, to admire a client’s body and frankly, makes no sense in this situation when Potter looks a bit like he did after the Battle of Hogwarts, skinny and wide-eyed. But though his muscles have atrophied and he’s lost an unhealthy amount of weight, Draco can see from the lines of his form what he could look like with the slightest bit of effort, and he wonders blankly if being confronted with such knowledge is one of the reasons he avoids newspapers. Potter is entirely too attractive—flat stomach, narrow hips, wide chest, somehow, even after eating doughnuts for breakfast for who knows how long—for Draco’s comfort and he blinks for a moment before clearing his throat and gesturing to the bed.

Potter rolls over to the side of it wordlessly and clutches the supporting rail, grunting with effort as he heaves himself back into it. He settles himself propped against the pillows, and Draco shakes his head.

“No. Lie flat, please.”

“Can you please at least explain what this is about?” Potter asks rigidly.

Abashed, Draco realises he hasn’t. He clears his throat again. “Therapeutic massage. It will help with muscle stimulation and blood flow.”

“I don’t want you _rubbing_ me, Malfoy,” Potter growls at him.

Abruptly exasperated, Draco frowns at him. “I never said ‘erotic massage,’ you giant wanker. Just let me do my job.” He sighs. “You’re cold, right?”

Potter grimaces. “Well, yes, you forced me to strip down to my pants.”

“I mean in general,” Draco huffs at him, climbing up onto the mattress. He reaches out and takes Potter’s wrist, timing his pulse, which is slow. “Your circulation is incredibly poor. Your hands and foot are probably icy. We need to increase your circulation and work on activating your muscles before we can proceed.”

Potter looks at him thoughtfully for a moment before giving a short nod. He uses his hands to wriggle his body downwards until he’s lying flat on the mattress, only one pillow supporting his head. Draco casts a gentle charm to elevate Potter’s heartrate slightly and grabs a bottle of oil he’s brought with him for this purpose, slathering his hands with it. He begins at Potter’s left foot.  Massage sounds like an enjoyable activity, and it can be under the right circumstances. Therapy is not generally one of these.

He uses all of his muscles to stroke deep into the tissues of Potter’s foot and ankle and calf and thigh, pressing his slickened palms deep, circling against the skin in smooth, stroking patterns designed to aid in circulation. Potter groans, hisses, grits his teeth against the pain of it as Draco works higher, then moves over to his other leg. He’s gentle around the site of the amputation, but resumes heavier ministrations up Potter’s right thigh.

When he’s finished, he nudges Potter to roll over and then helps ease the transition from his back to his front, starting work on the backs of his thighs and glutes, ignoring Potter’s brief squawk of indignation. He moves steadily upward, to his lower back, massaging deep with his knuckles around the site of his injury on either side of his spine and continues up through his shoulders, flattening his hands and sliding his palms outward along the lines of his biceps.

By the time the massage is complete, an hour has passed and he’s panting slightly from the exertion.

Potter lifts his face slightly from the pillow, voice sluggish and muffled. “Are you done?”

“For now.” Draco grabs a hand towel and wipes the perspiration from his face, then hands Potter his wand and points his own to cancel the heartrate charm. “Cast a cleaning charm over yourself.”

Potter heaves himself over gracelessly, staring down for an angry moment as his motionless thighs cross. He adjusts them with one hand and casts a cleaning charm that still leaves the faint glisten of oil on his skin. Draco nods, casting another over him so that he’s fully clean.

“Your magic is weak, because you’ve been using it for such simple spells, and with such a narrow focus.” He doesn’t mention the emotional aspect of magical fortitude. “How many spells would you say you use on a regular basis?”

“Enough,” Potter says, disgruntled. “Aren’t massages supposed to be relaxing?”

“If these are, I’m doing my job wrong.” Draco hands him an empty mug. “Fill this with water, please.”

Potter rolls his eyes, but does, and Draco takes a long drink from it. It is cold and refreshing, but there’s a vague metallic aftertaste.

“Why is this necessary?”

“I know Doctor Marsh. You heard of him?” At Potter’s clipped nod, Draco continues, “You’re a good candidate for his newest prosthesis. It’s a magically-binding attachment that will feel much the same way a regular leg would; there will even be a certain amount of sensation in it. It would only need to be removed during magical transport such as Apparition or in the use of the Floo Network, as well as during bathing, but your mobility could be close to what it once was.”

Potter’s eyes hold his for a beat too long; fierce and filled with resentment. “Not if I can’t move my legs.”

“That’s what I’m for.”

“Why should you be able to help?” Potter asks, though it sounds rhetorical. “None of the others could.”

“Did you let them?” Draco replies. “Or did you get stuck thinking your amazing Gryffindor power would allow you to heal within a month?”

Potter pauses for so long Draco begins to think he’s not going to respond at all. Then, “Why are you doing this, Malfoy? Really.”

Draco’s breath catches. He can’t say so many of the things that go through his mind: _Because I owe you, far more than I want to. Because I need to help you. Because I can’t even make myself examine why it’s so painful to see you so broken when you could be living a full life, whether or not you can walk._

Finally, he settles on, “Because it’s what I do. Really.”

“And can you promise that I’ll be who I was again?” Potter says, voice rough with longing. “That I will be able to go back on active duty and fly and fuck and live my life again? Would you make an Unbreakable Vow to it?”

Draco looks at him, appalled. “Of course I wouldn’t, you arrogant dolt! I never promised that. But I can take you part way or further.” He swallows hard against the disappointment on Potter’s face and turns the topic back to its original subject. “I’ve seen your scans, there’s a reason Dr. Marsh is so willing to help you. But he can’t design a prosthetic for you if you are unable to walk with it—not a working one, anyhow. They did a beautiful job repairing your spine. Your main issue now, I believe, is nerve damage. The nerves are tricky things. You must have been told what a good sign it is that you were able to regain so much sensory function; that alone is indicative of the nerves repairing themselves, as they oft can do. But control and movement won’t come back without work. Think of it as your wand: when you were a child, there was power there, but you didn’t know how to direct it. Even after you got your wand, you were not able to do many things with it because you didn’t know how. We simply need to re-teach your body what it has unlearnt.”

“I want to be able to work again,” Potter rumbles lowly.

“And fly and fuck and live,” Draco dryly summarizes his words back to him. “Yes, thank you, I heard. No pressure on me, then.”  Amazingly, Potter cracks a small smile at this, just a twitch of his lips, up and to the left. Draco shakes his head to clear it. “I can’t make you any promises. But I can tell you that in my expert opinion, based on your diagnostics, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be able to walk again if you get your head and hurt pride out of your arse and work hard enough. Really, Potter, I’ve seen people in worse shape be more functional than you are in under two months. You haven’t taken proper care of yourself.”

Potter gives a humourless bark of a laugh. “And it matters to you what condition I’m in?”

“Believe it or not,” Draco says quietly, “It does. It always has.”

***

Hermione and Weasley join them in Potter’s kitchen for lunch. It is a tense affair; Potter doesn’t speak much, returning Weasley’s rejoinders and Hermione’s questions with clipped responses.

When he asks about his cases, there is a telling pause before Weasley answers. “We, ah, closed the Robert’s case last week, actually.”

Potter’s hand tightens fractionally on his fork. “That’s the last of them, then. Who was it?”

“His niece. She was Sorted into Hufflepuff, so she was low on the suspects list, but she had a bit of talent with potions and she had become addicted to Euphoria. Roberts had—”

“Four vials of unicorn blood,” Potter supplies quickly. “Got it. Azkaban, then?”

“Six months, reduced sentence,” Weasley explains. “Her Pensieve memory shows that it was an accident; she pushed him when he caught her trying to steal, and he fell against the mantle. She’ll follow it up with some mandatory time in a rehabilitation facility.”

The silence grows and grows. Potter nods, looking down into his plate of chicken and roast vegetables. “Good on you, then, Ron, you must be very proud,” he grits out, not looking up.

Weasley and Hermione exchange another telling look.

“You were the one who originally found that he secretly collected rare potions ingredients,” Weasley offers tentatively.

Potter’s smile is faint and mean. “I originally used to do a lot of things,” he mutters.

Draco watches the change overtake him. Unable to listen to more, he interjects, “You thought she wasn’t a suspect because she was a Hufflepuff? Let me guess, if she’d been in Slytherin, she would have been at the top of the list?”

“I know, it’s stupid,” Weasley says, latching onto the topic like a drowning man. “But Hufflepuffs are always on the bottom of our suspect’s list. Loyal and honest and all that. Harry was one of the first to start changing some of the old views at the Ministry, but certain things have still stuck.”

“Guess they’ll stay that way now,” Potter mutters. “Unless you want to step in and start fixing everything else I’ll never be able to do, Ron.”

Weasley blanches. He puts down his fork. “You know, I think I’d better go check on Hugo. Mum has him, but she mentioned she was pretty busy today.” He stands, claps Potter on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, yeah, mate?”

Potter nods unenthusiastically, a flicker of regret on his face, and Weasley marches out of the room. Draco looks at Hermione, who places a comforting hand over Potter’s forearm, and excuses himself as well.

He catches Weasley in the sitting room, fiddling with a crystal jar of Floo powder. Draco is unsure if his jolt of sympathy comes from years of working with the families of the recently disabled or because Weasley looks so damn pathetic standing in front of the fireplace, but he moves up to his side. “That’s really common, you know.”

Weasley glares at him half-heartedly. “It’s not like I don’t deserve it.”

“Because he saved your life?” Draco laughs. “Then I suppose I deserve horrible treatment as well. Don’t answer that,” he adds quickly. “Or is it because he was hurt saving your life? Because from what I gather, you didn’t force him to make the decision he did.”

“I wasn’t…” Weasley sighs; his head tilts forward until it’s touching the mantelpiece. “I'm responsible. I did a brief check to make sure his attacker was dead, but he must have blocked the spell somehow. I didn’t follow up.”

“Why would you follow up on someone whom magic indicated had died?”

“I… Look, I apologise for how I treated you the other day. I don’t like you, but I guess that’s just because of… Well, really I don’t know you anymore, like you said. ‘Mione said you’re the best, and I appreciate what you’re doing,” he says quietly, sincerely. Taken aback, Draco remains silent. “But if you do anything you shouldn’t, I’ll fucking take you apart piece by piece.”

That’s more like it.

“Weasley, the day you take me down in duel is the day I offer my wand to Potter again,” Draco snickers.

Weasley looks equal parts amused and offended. “Fifteen year career at the MLE, Malfoy. And I’m pretty sure you didn’t ‘offer your wand’ to Harry. If you ever want to come visit it sometime, by the way, it’s under heavily warded display glass at the Ministry.”

Draco grimaces, conceding the point, as Hermione joins them.

She gives a slightly harassed smile to Draco, then laces her fingers through Weasley’s. “Let’s go.” She turns back. “I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”

Draco doesn’t miss her implication that Weasley won’t be with her. “Actually, it might be wise for you to stay away for a bit. Let us settle into a routine. We need to…” He swallows, shifting his eyes away, oddly embarrassed to say something he says with every new client’s family. “We need to build up some trust.”

Weasley snorts softly, but Hermione nods. “All right. I’ll check back… soon.”

“Very well.”

They leave, and Draco returns to the kitchen, where Potter is sitting sullenly, fiddling with his food like a child. Draco sits down across from him. “Well, I always knew you could be a self-righteous arse, but I’ve never seen it directed toward your best mate.”

Potter looks up, eyes flashing. “You don’t know what he…”

“Did?” Draco finishes, raising his eyebrows when Potter trails off. “Didn’t do? I’m easily capable of making certain connections and understanding specific running themes, as my six Outstanding N.E.W.T.’s will attest.”

Potter’s face is as implacable as stone. He throws down his utensil, startling Draco with the loud clatter it makes against his plate.

“I need to use the loo,” he says under his breath, all wounded dignity on display before wheeling out of the kitchen.

Draco waits for a minute, catching his breath. He has witnessed Potter use his broom to escape a dragon, cast a spell at him that almost sliced him in half, defeat the Darkest Wizard of their time, and hold Draco’s gaze steady as he’d testified for him in court. But this new, bitter version is still surprising, and he has to consistently remind himself that Potter is just a man, like so many others, who has lost something dear to him.

He hears a crash from above, and Draco looks up in alarm. Without conscious intent, he finds himself running up the stairs to Potter’s room.

Potter is sitting in his chair, perfectly fine, and relief swamps Draco for a moment. Then he notices the sharp smell of urine, and his heart clenches. There is a broken lamp on the floor next to Potter’s chair; apparently, he knocked it over, most likely on purpose.

“Potter.”

Potter’s voice is thick with humiliation. “Get out, Malfoy.”

“No.” Draco steps further in. He kneels in front of Potter and casts a quiet cleaning charm over him. His face is wretched, screwed tight with repressed pain, eyes swollen with unshed tears. “This is perfectly normal.”

“To piss myself?” he asks dully. “Yeah, I guess it is now.”

“Do you often have a problem with incontinence?” Draco presses in a quiet voice.

Potter refuses to meet his eyes. “Not anymore. I feel… Pressure. I usually make it in time these days.”

“That’s amazing,” Draco compliments genuinely, still quiet. “A lot of people can’t do that. It shows incredible improvement.”

A shining thread of moisture leaks out of the corner of Potter’s eye. He rubs it away with the heel of his hand. “It’s amazing that I have the bladder control of a three-year-old. Thank you.”

“I mean it,” Draco insists. He puts a light, comforting hand on Potter’s shoulder. “It’s an indicator of so many other things. You were using a catheter, yes? In the beginning.” Potter gives a jerky nod. “And now you have the occasional timing accident. This is a very good sign.” Draco pauses, taking a deep breath. “We’re going to have to have an in-depth discussion of your goals and areas in which you’d like to work. I have my own routine to institute, but I need more information, and your file is woefully thin. I’m assuming because you’ve been too hard-headed to work with your previous physiotherapists. There’s too much I don’t know.”

“Fine, Malfoy,” Potter returns, vaguely sarcastic, cheeks still stained a ruddy red. “Whatever you want.”

“Good,” Draco says cheerfully. “Now. Time for a bath.”

“I’m clean,” Potter points out, voice deadened. “I had one last night.”

“And you’ll have so many while I’m here that you’ll wonder if they can fit you for fins rather than a new leg,” Draco informs him, and walks off to the bathroom.

***

Any progress Draco made in the beginning stalls in the weeks following Potter’s accident.

Potter works with him dutifully, but doesn’t complain and barely engages with him beyond the most basic interactions of physical therapy. He allows the massages with clenched teeth, sits in his EMS chair and baths for hours, and practices every spell Draco directs. His magical ability grows and stabilizes, although Draco suspects it reaches nowhere near the power his files indicate he has the capacity for. But he doesn’t answer questions regarding the night of his injury and his life before it, or about goals for the future, stonewalling Draco’s attempts to forge the deeper kind of patient/client relationship necessary for successful rehabilitation.

Hermione visits three times a week, bringing them greetings from Weasley and the kids, who “miss their Uncle Harry,” Draco overhears, and he realises how completely Potter has isolated himself from the world. In fact, Hermione is the _only_ one who visits, although Draco would be willing to bet his wand that up until Potter’s injury, he was constantly surrounded by groups of loved ones. It’s what the hero types do: love and be loved by others.

On day seven, Draco calls Potter a giant wanker and makes fun of his hair with no returning comment. On day twelve, Draco lists the reasons why Lucius was such a good father; he follows it up on day fourteen with an overly sweet expression of sympathy for Potter’s lack of parents and gets an uninterested silence for his efforts. On day nineteen, Draco tells Potter about his last client, and the determination with which he went after learning to walk on Muggle prosthetics, as both of his legs had been lost in a car accident; Potter pretends to continue reading his book.

The problem is that there is no one set of rules regarding appealing to a client. Some respond to a compassionate approach, some to teasing, some to empathy, some to strength. Potter, however, retains his frightfully annoying habit of never fitting into the slot Draco imagines for him, and he considers it a personal failing when he cannot draw forth more interest from Potter in his recovery.

By day twenty-four, Draco is seriously considering the wisdom of his employment. He’s lasted nearly twice as long as Potter’s previous therapists, but it’s completely useless unless they can build a relationship with which to work together. Admittedly, not their strong suit if history is to be believed.

He can see why, now, that therapists and Healers recuse themselves from treating those they know. There’s a deeper level of desire to succeed in helping them that doesn’t exist when beginning treatment with a stranger. The relationship is layered with baggage and the desire to make amends for one’s wrongs and preconceptions and the kinds of resentments it takes longer than fifteen years to outgrow.  Draco finds he’s beginning to loathe himself in much the same way he had when Potter had declined his proffered hand at the age of eleven. Whenever he bends the balls of Potter’s toes back or helps him roll over in the middle of the night, he feels the cold hand of years of anger clench in his midsection.

There are small accomplishments, of course. Potter has begun to fill out to a small approximation of the man he looks like in his photographs. His face is no longer grey; his skin is no longer icy to the touch. He regains partial control over his toes, which he’d lost in the absence of regular therapy. His appetite is better now that he’s eating healthy foods.

But it’s not enough. Draco is confident in his abilities, but Potter’s disregard makes him feel like a petulant, scared boy again, which inhibits what he knows he could do if given half the chance.

On day twenty-nine, as Potter is eating lunch in the kitchen, Draco leads Hermione to the Floo and examines his own pride, which he is old enough to recognise as the reason for most of his downfalls. He carefully swallows it and tells her that she may have found the wrong person for the job. Her face washes of colour; her brown eyes stand out starkly.

“Why?” she asks hoarsely.

“It’s too… personal between us, I suspect,” Draco admits quietly. “He’ll work on simple therapy but won’t open up, which makes it difficult for me to push him further because I can’t understand his limits. I can furnish you with the names of some very good Healers that may be able to reach through to him. People toward whom he holds no feelings, either positive or negative.”

“Draco…” She runs a distressed hand through her hair. “I know he’s being difficult…”

Draco snorts lightly. “I know how to cope with a difficult Potter. I don’t know how to cope with a detached one.”

She purses her lips. “You’re under contract.”

“I know. I’m telling you that you should release me from it, or else it may end up wasting him eight more months,” Draco says, suddenly exhausted.

Her face turns perceptive, soft. “It was never about owing him, was it?”

“It was,” Draco says after a pause.

“But not only.”

“No,” he acknowledges. “Not only.”

“Let me think on it overnight. I’ll let you know tomorrow, okay?” she says, looking at him thoughtfully.

He nods and watches her disappear into the Floo, then returns to the kitchen where Potter is finishing his turkey-on-whole-wheat sandwich. He looks at him, feeling dull and twisted inside at how he still manages to admire someone who hates him, after all this time.

“Do you need help with anything?” he asks suddenly.

Potter glances up, expression oddly soft. “No. I can get to the loo myself.”

“I know,” Draco says heavily. “I feel I could use a nap. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“That’s funny, I have.” Potter puts down the last bit of his sandwich, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Why are you allowed to nap and I’m not?”

Draco looks at him evenly. “My primary issue was your sleep schedule being so uneven. Take a bloody nap if you want now.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you bothering me with stupid questions, Potter? This isn’t Potions class and you’re not fifteen anymore,” Draco says rudely.

Potter pauses. “I’m pretty sure I would remember if I had ever asked you a single question in Potions. Which was not the case.”

“Right, I wasn’t Granger,” Draco mutters resentfully, unable to believe it still bothers him. “If you’ll excuse me? Send up a charm if you need something.” He turns to go.

“Malfoy.”

Draco turns back, aggravated. “What? Need me to cut up the rest of your sandwich for you? Why don’t you just present me with socks and send me on my way?”

“You’re not a house elf,” Potter grumbles, looking away. His cheeks redden slightly. “I just. Are you okay?”

 _I’m leaving,_ Draco wants to say. _I’m done. You’ve done nothing but make me feel a quitter and a bully my whole life and I know that’s unfair, but I want to be away from you._ “I’m just tired.”

“Okay.”

Draco heads upstairs and lays down, letting sleep wrap around him like a warm cloak in winter.

***

The following morning, Draco helps Potter onto the padded massage table after his spa soak. He’s acting oddly, far more like the Potter of their second day; vaguely belligerent but more accepting of Draco’s presence—he even complains about feeling like a turkey basting in the spa. Stranger still, he does it with a slight smile.

Draco begins work on Potter’s foot, pressing into the high, almost delicate arch firmly with his thumb. He allows his mind to wander while he works his way up Potter’s leg, rotating his ankle until he makes a noise of discomfort and then massaging his calf muscles, skimming his fingers around the shin. He drapes his body across the table for leverage, lifting Potter’s leg and bending it at the knee, pressing it upwards so his thigh angles at ninety degrees to his chest. Potter’s breath leaves him in a whoosh of distress, startling Draco out of his reverie.

He lowers Potter’s leg. “Too much?”

“It’s just… What are you doing?” He looks like he’s trying not to be interested.

Draco makes a face. “I’m sorry. Flexibility training. The next step. I should have spoken with you about it first.”

Hermione’s voice drifts up with hall. “Harry? Draco?”

Potter’s head turns sharply to the door, half-open. His eyes are wide and panicked suddenly, and his face drops all pretence. “Don’t—don’t let her see me like this.”

Momentarily bewildered, it takes Draco the span of four of Hermione’s quiet footfalls starting up the stairs before he understands. Potter is laid out like a sacrifice, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. He’s gained some good muscle in the time that Draco has been feeding him up, but his body still screams of what he’s done to it with his neglect; his ribs are still far too prominent, the bones of his hips jut. His legs have fleshed out, thickened up with some lean muscle, but are slightly twisted in his position, highlighting his paralysis, as well as the site of his amputation. Draco swiftly contemplates how distressed Hermione will be at seeing him like this.

Potter is reaching his arm out, trying to get his wand. In a sudden burst of intuition, Draco blocks him. It’s underhanded and even vicious, but he wasn’t placed into Slytherin for nothing.

“I want something.”

“What?” Potter’s face freezes, eyes on the half-open door. “Just—please!”

“I want your word that you’ll start working with me.”

“I am,” Potter hisses, looking for all the world as though when he reaches his wand, his first spell won’t be to close the door, but to _Avada Kedavra_ him. Draco glares downward, and the anger in Potter’s face intensifies, then cracks. His arm drops, hanging limply. “Okay.”

Hermione’s footsteps have reached the top stair.

“You have to talk to me.”

“Fine! You fucking bastard,” Harry can’t help but adding furiously.

Even better.

Draco pulls his wand and shuts the door with a spell. There’s a pause, and then a knock. He smirks at Potter. “Just a minute!”

Tossing Potter a sheet, he heads over and steps out into the hallway. Hermione looks confused. “Wasn’t this open?”

“We’re busy.”

“Oh, but it’s almost lunch.” She reaches around him toward the doorknob and Draco steps neatly in front of her.

“Potter is indisposed.”

He can practically see the cogs whirring in her brain. “And he doesn’t want to see me?”

“Come back this evening, if you like,” Draco offers, softer now. “Dinner.”

Hermione hesitates. “I was going to talk with you as well, about what we discussed yesterday.”

“We can do that another time,” Draco says. Christ, he’d better not be wrong about this.

“All right,” she says slowly, pinning him with a narrow gaze. “If you’re sure.”

Draco snorts. “Nowhere near. But it can wait.”

Her brown eyes brighten a bit; she really is quite lovely sometimes, he realises with a jolt of surprise at her subdued giddiness. Her lips curl upward, and she startles him by yelling out loudly, “Bye, Harry! I’ll come back later!”

Potter’s voice is muffled but just as loud. “Tomorrow, okay?”

“All right!”

Draco tries not to cringe. It’s a door, not a mile between them. Neither of them need to be abusing his eardrums.  But he maintains his neutral expression as Hermione smiles again and practically skips back down the stairs. Draco steps back inside the training room.

Potter has swathed himself in the sheet and propped himself up on his elbows. His face is inscrutable.

“Ready to talk?” Draco enquires with a lightness he does not feel.

Potter just looks at him, grim and serious. “I heard you yesterday.”

Draco’s heart skips a beat. “Oh?”

“When you were giving your notice to Hermione.” As if it needed clarification. “I’ve charmed my flat to be able to hear all conversations that take place in it.”

“That’s quite…an Auror thing for you to do, I suppose.” Draco wants to say Slytherin, but has a niggling suspicion it won’t play off well.

“I don’t want you to go.” Potter sighs, hard. His elbows go loose and he flops backward against the table, bringing up his palms to rub his face. “I mean, I do. Mostly, it’s just that I don’t want to need your help. Anyone’s. Is that enough?”

“For me to stay?” Draco pretends to think about it, ignoring the burst of triumph in his chest urging him to cheer aloud. “Not remotely, Potter.”

Potter groans, the sound stifled by his hands. “Then I think,” he says severely, “You should start by calling me Harry.”

***

Dinner is an awkward affair, riddled with too many mundane comments about the food and a high degree of etiquette that Draco is surprised to find Harry knows. It’s all part of Harry’s stalling tactics, but though his eyes are still devoid of the light Draco remembers from their youth, there is a softening to his edges.

After they eat, Harry wheels into his sitting room and opens a concealed bar in the wall. He pulls out a bottle of scotch and two snifters, adding a healthy serving of the golden liquid to both and handing one over to Draco.

He refrains from commenting that Harry isn’t supposed to drink, with the prescriptive diet and potions regimen Draco has him on, and instead takes a healthy sip while he waits. The burn is exactly what he needs, he finds. Draco closes the Floo and lights a fire.

Harry sits, swirling his drink in his hand for long minutes without taking a sip. And then, “There are things I won’t talk about.”

“All right. Like what?”

“The night of my injury, for one,” Harry says after thinking for a moment. “Being an Auror. …Maybe you and me.”

“The first two we can avoid.” Draco takes another slow swallow, savouring it this time. “I think perhaps we’ve avoided the latter for too long. It might be the cause of some of the tension between us.”

Harry looks at him narrowly. “What kind of things do you need to know?”

Draco sets down his glass; it’s half-gone anyway, and it wouldn’t do for him to get soused just as the other man seems willing to open up. “I need to know that you can stand working with me, even if it makes you vulnerable and embarrassed sometimes. I’ve been considering pissing myself just to see if it would help your attitude.”

Harry snorts. “Would you, really?”

“Probably not.” Draco pulls a face. “Maybe. I do tend to get rather invested in my clients.”

“Well, take that one off the table. I’ve no desire to see you embarrass yourself.”

“You already have, Potter. Harry,” he corrects softly, thinking of Harry’s face in a broken bathroom mirror nearly twenty years back.

“Christ.” Harry cards a vicious hand through his hair. “We really can’t get through without talking about it, can we? Not when we…”

“Actually talk? No, I think not.”

“Fine, then. If it comes up, it comes up. What else?”

“We need to set a list of goals,” Draco explains. “The first of many.”

“I want to work—”

“I remember the rest,” Draco interrupts. Harry gives a faint, wry smile. “It needs to be smaller and more manageable. I’d like to suggest two things.”

“Which are?” Harry’s upper lip closes over the bottom, subtly changing the angles of his face; his cheekbones stand out sharper, his nose seems more narrow, his chin tucks in a bit. Then again, Draco concedes, it could just be the firelight and the scotch.

“Getting your foot moving at will. Your control over your toes is moderate at best. Managing your pain levels. You won’t talk to me about them, but I’ve had enough clients to see it. What would you say it is on any given day?” Draco asks, taking a risk. “One to ten.”

For a moment, he thinks Harry won’t answer. Then next moment, he wishes he hadn’t. “Eight.”

“ _Eight_?” Appalled, Draco is unsure of how to respond. “Occasionally, you mean? Or…”

“No, most of the time.” He seems quite calm about it.

“But that’s insane! They never should have released you if your injury pain was still at that level!” Draco objects.

“It’s not the injury.” Suddenly, Harry won’t meet his eyes. “It’s the leg. The missing one.”

“Oh sweet Merlin.” He shouldn’t feel betrayed, he knows it’s ridiculous, and yet there are so many people—Muggles—that Draco has been unable to help with phantom pain except in the most rudimentary of ways. “I _asked_ you.”

“Didn’t want to tell you,” Harry says in an off-hand way.

Draco stands suddenly, walking over to Harry and kneeling in front of his chair. Taking a few precious seconds to collect himself, he rolls up the shortened trousers at Harry’s thigh. Harry’s hand falls to his shoulder for a moment, then pulls away as if he’s burned himself, and Draco looks up. There’s a strange expression on Harry’s face, but he can’t make himself contemplate it, not now that he has a task he can actually focus on.

He turns to Harry’s left leg uses his wand to slice his trousers off above the knee, not wanting to waste time. He reaches down and removes the slipper covering his left foot, and traces his leg from thigh to knee to calf to ankle to toes with his wand. Then he runs his wand over the seam of scar tissue pulled tight over bone and muscle at the bottom of his right thigh and murmurs, _“Speculum Sensatio_.”

Slowly, a shining blue vapor materializes into the shape of a leg. Harry’s breath begins to come fast and shallow; he stares down at it as it becomes more solid and then makes a pained noise. Draco touches the charmed illusion of his newly-formed knee.

“Here?” His hand travels down Harry’s calf and he gives the image of muscle a light squeeze. “Here?”

Harry licks his lips. “I can feel that.”

“Of course you can,” Draco says in an insulted tone, but he smiles. “It’s a sensory image. The charm is short lived, but I find it helps with those clients who suffer from extreme phantom-limb pain. So where—”

“My calf,” Harry says on an eager rush. “My foot. My foot is cramping all the time.”

“So it is,” Draco murmurs. Even as the words are leaving Harry’s mouth, the image of his right foot is twisting painfully, the muscles of his arch knotting tightly, his toes curling under. Draco situates himself better on the floor, crossing his legs comfortably, and pulls the image of Harry’s foot into his lap. It feels light, not completely solid. He bends his toes back carefully, as he does in therapy, and then rubs the knots out of his arch, digging his thumbs into the heel.

Harry makes another sound, broken with longing. “I can’t move it.”

“No. Does this feel better?” Draco rotates his ankle, pinching his misty, glowing Achilles tendon tightly. Harry groans. Fat tears escape his eyes, magnified behind his glasses, tracking glistening paths down his cheeks.

Draco respectfully looks back down at his work. The foot in his lap is nothing more than a solidified, reversed image of his opposite foot; mirror therapy is often used with Muggles, though not usually with such an effect. This is essentially the same thing, but the physical sensation is a manifestation of the pain itself. That Harry can feel it so fully speaks to how much it has been hurting him, and Draco tries to stay professional in the face of that knowledge.

He keeps one hand rubbing Harry’s foot and allows the other to stray to his calf, stroking and squeezing and scratching (itching is one of the most common complaints of amputees), then up to his knee, placing his palm over it in a light, comforting touch. Harry’s crying has become more vocal, shuddering ragged breaths in and out. The charm begins to dissipate, the leg slowly fading away, and Draco finally looks back up into his face. There is grief there, but also a stark joy that almost hurts to bear witness to.

Harry is staring at him as though he’s had a revelation. Their eyes lock for too long, and Draco doesn’t know how to pull himself out of the moment as it draws out. When Harry drops his eyes, it releases him, and he scoots backwards to a more appropriate distance.

“Why—um.” He clears his throat, wishing he’d finished his drink. “I’m surprised that your Healers didn’t show you that.”

“One of them did,” Harry says hoarsely. “It didn’t feel like that. I couldn’t feel anything. It didn’t even look like my leg.”

“That’s appalling. I’m sorry. It was one of the first things I’d learned,” Draco says. “Of course, the charm has been perfected since then, but still. St. Mungo’s should know better than to treat—well, _you_ with a second-year intern.”

“I think she was a full-fledged Healer, actually. Draco?” The name trips off his tongue as though he should have been saying it for years, Draco thinks. He feels more settled now that Harry’s face has calmed. He looks wrung out, surely, but relaxed; almost drugged.

He looks up. “Yes?”

“Will you stay?”

Harry leans forward in his chair, and Draco has the insane thought that he’s trying not to reach for him.

“Yes,” he whispers at length. “I’ll stay.”

***

Counterpoint: Harry

When Harry taps his wand over lunch, the conversation Malfoy and Hermione are having in the other room sweeps directly into his ear. His sandwich tastes like ash in his mouth as he listens to Malfoy tell her he wants to go.

There is no satisfaction in it; Harry had thought there would be.

Malfoy has tried every way he could think of to make Harry respond. He’d responded enough, he figures, by soaking himself in urine and getting caught. He saw the pity on Malfoy’s face, quickly masked. He felt like a naughty three-year-old. No. He’d _wanted_ to feel like a child. He wasn’t. He was a grown man who couldn’t reach the toilet fast enough, and the humiliation burns a path of heat down to his stomach whenever he thinks of it.

All of his control is gone, his power, all of those things about him that are so deeply admired. He’d never enjoyed being the Chosen One (all caps, in every newspaper), never sought his fame. Yet, it is oddly shaming that he’s afraid of what the papers are writing about him now. He doesn’t go out in public: he is terrified of seeing tears from strangers and shaking hands from people too effusive in an attempt to hide their disgust.

Hermione and Ron are bad enough; gentle as though he will crack (as if he hasn’t already), tentative in a way that they’ve never been, not in twenty-five years. Because how could they treat him as they always have? He’s a different person now; he’s _less_ than he used to be.

A week into the silent feud he’s waging with Malfoy, he wakes up to feel the gentle press of hands negotiating him into a new position. In that split second, understanding comes to him as to why he’s been sleeping better; for some reason, it had never occurred to him that he’s been waking up on his side since Malfoy has come to stay. He lets himself be moved and pushes down the tide of gratitude that fills him because really, the best thing Malfoy could do for him now is to get out and stop being a bloody reminder of his own weaknesses, of which he has so many.

It’s in the second week that he realises he’s attracted to Malfoy, fat lot of good that will do either of them, even if Malfoy were so inclined. Harry can get his cock up now with enough stimulation, but coming takes forever and he often loses enthusiasm for it halfway through; he’s completely ceased with attempts to masturbate, it’s so disheartening. Can’t be an Auror, can’t even be a man.

He thinks of his last sexual contact with Platinum at the club, warm hands closing over his skin. He thinks of bending Adam over the arm of his sofa, drunk with lust, playful and acrobatic and forceful. He thinks of Malfoy, rubbing him down with those elegant hands, helping him into gently steaming water. He thinks any of it, all of it, should make him hard. None of it does. He hates Malfoy for this, too.

But there’s a strange familiarity to Malfoy’s determination, something delicate and fine. It’s the set to his face and the way his shoulders round forward like parentheses when Harry refuses to talk to him. It’s satisfying to watch, and not much brings Harry satisfaction these days. Even feeling this much of something not wholly negative is a surprise.

Malfoy’s attempts to get through to him are rather pathetic. Name calling, bringing up his father (it always sounds a bit like “My father will hear about this!” Harry thinks with grudging amusement), trying to make him feel sympathetic for a ten-year-old boy who’d lost his legs.

 _Of course_ Harry feels sympathetic. _Of course_ he knows that he’s just a bastard who can’t let go of his own self-pity to do what a child let himself do. It’s just that he can’t do much about it; he’s crippled too.

He waits, every day, for Malfoy to revert to type and do something ugly. He waits for the taunts he grew up hearing, waits for the nasty sneer he can recall without so much as a blink. But Malfoy’s taunts are soft-edged with encouragement; his sneer is directed at himself. And Harry doesn’t know what to do. Because even he can see that Malfoy’s schedule is helping him.

The sensation below his hips has gotten better, his toes curl half the time when his brain tells them to. He doesn’t feel so heavy now that he’s, ironically, put on some weight. He sleeps and eats and lets Malfoy take the reins and waits for him to get the hell out of his life.

He could probably do this on his own, now that he knows what’s needed. Which is why he’s so staggered by the distress he feels when he hears Malfoy talking to Hermione.

It’s even worse when Malfoy returns to the kitchen, eyes tired, face blank. He makes a quip about feeling like a house-elf and Harry cringes internally because, frankly, Malfoy does a lot for him without any thanks or acknowledgement, and Harry is forced into the realisation that he’s allowed his injuries to make him into someone people don’t want to be around. He’s forced to face the fact that the dark places in his mind have finally—after all this time—taken hold.

He thinks about this as Malfoy naps, then over dinner. He thinks about it as Malfoy trudges to his room in the middle of the night, helping him to roll over so that Harry doesn’t have to wake up fully to get into a comfortable position. He thinks about this as Malfoy protects Hermione from seeing him so weak and different than he used to be.

And then.

And then Harry allows himself to bend toward Malfoy in a way he hasn’t since he last saw him in those dark days after the war, at his trial. He allows himself to soften, to wonder. He allows himself forgive Malfoy for seeing him wet himself.

And in return, Malfoy gives him back his leg.

It’s only for a few moments, but it’s the most beautiful thing Harry has ever felt. The sensation is strange but undeniably _there_ ; Malfoy’s hands drifting over the vibrantly misty form of his missing limb, rubbing deep into muscles that do not exist, meticulously stroking skin that isn’t there.

And for the first time since waking, Harry doesn’t have to compartmentalise his pain, because his leg doesn’t hurt. His non-existent foot uncurls, his imaginary calf unknots.

Malfoy may owe him a life-debt, but as far as Harry is concerned, it’s repaid in full in that moment.

He wants to touch Malfoy as he had when Malfoy had knelt in front of him. Wants to see those long fingers enclose his own. He is so desperate for touch he feels confused that he hadn’t realised it before.

His hands twitch to reach out as Malfoy’s grey eyes darken to smoke. Harry feels frozen with want and uncertainty. Malfoy’s face soaks up the orange of the firelight; shadows make strange shapes over his sharp cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and Harry wants to kiss him.

He breaks their gaze.

It takes stores of strength he wasn’t aware he still had, and Malfoy moves away with what looks like relief. But when Harry calls him Draco for the first time, his pupils dilate with something lovely and subtle and tenuous, and Harry wants to see it again and again.

And an ache fills his bones at the idea that this man, so himself and so changed into what he ought to have been twenty years ago, could possibly have felt the same thing.  Because how would that be possible?


	4. Intensive Care

“All right.” Draco perches on the top of the toilet seat, at the ready with a clipboard and pen. “Shall we?”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Must we? While I’m in the bath?”

“It won’t get any less embarrassing for you when you’re fully dressed,” Draco assures him.

“I doubt that,” Harry grumbles under his breath, but doesn’t seem angry.

In the few days since they have come to their understanding—Draco will stay, Harry will cooperate—the dynamic of their relationship has become rather confusing, all blurred lines and twisted angles. For some reason, it’s taken a bit to settle into the same routine they’ve been practicing for a month now. Although they’ve agreed to work with one another, they relate to each other gracelessly, ineptly.

Timidity feels unnatural to Draco, and he suspects to Harry as well. Yet they cannot continue this tentative waltz around one another, each fearing to do what needs to be done, say what needs to be said, ask what needs to be asked.

And so.

Draco takes a deep breath. “Have you had any further incontinence issues that you haven’t told me about?”

Harry’s jaw tightens. His voice is curt. “No. Not quite.”

“Explain that, please.”

Gruffly, he does. “A week ago, when I woke up. It was a near thing.”

Draco makes a note. “Your bowel movements are regular?”

“Merlin, Malfoy.” Harry’s cheeks darken. “Regular enough. Sometimes it takes time.”

“That’s normal,” Draco says, hiding his own blush at Harry’s embarrassment by staring down at his clipboard. “I’ve been making sure that your fibre and fluid intake has gone up to help facilitate things, but I believe your sacral nerves are still mending. When they’re damaged, it can cause const—”

“Stop.”

Gratefully, Draco does. He can’t figure out why this is so uncomfortable now, after a month of helping Harry to the loo and the bath with no cooperation at all. Draco reminds himself that he has dual Medical and Healing degrees and that he’s been doing this for a decade and a half.

“What kind of regular exercise did you get before your injury? Flying?” he prompts, because it’s hard to imagine a life in which Harry did not fly.

Harry’s voice becomes rough. “Yes. And fieldwork. I also ran three miles every morning. Swimming in the summers.”

A pit forms in Draco’s stomach and he works to detach himself from it. “Lifting weights?”

“Well, no.” Harry looks thoughtful. “Never really needed to. I don’t much like the look of… big, you know.”

“You prefer scrawny?” Draco asks archly.

“Hey!” An offended smile plays with the corners of Harry’s mouth; lines that did not exist twenty years ago bracket it. “I haven’t been scrawny in a long time.” His smile fades. “I mean, I wasn’t.”

“Relax,” Draco says with an eyeroll. “You’re getting it back. Even your magic has stabilised.” Harry nods doubtfully, looking as though he’d like to say something. “What is it?”

“My—ah… I used to be able to do wandless magic pretty effortlessly,” Harry admits in a low voice. “I—I can’t, now.”

Impressed though he is, Draco works to keep his voice neutral. “You also weren’t able to cast a decent cleaning charm five weeks ago. Your diagnostics show that the dip in your power didn’t come immediately after you woke up.”

“No. A few weeks later.”

“An emotional and mental response to feeling…” Draco hesitates. “Powerless.”  Harry’s lips tighten, but he doesn’t comment, and Draco decides to move on. “Were you sexually active?”

Harry snickers humourlessly. “Yes. Not in the two months right before; I’d just gone through a breakup. But normally.”

“And your sex drive?”

“High,” Harry says after a moment. He glides his hands through the water, looking down into it, eyes unfocused behind his glasses.

“And now?” Draco prods.

Harry sighs. He reaches up and pulls at one ear with a wet hand. “Do I have a high sex drive now? Am I impotent? What are you asking?”

“Um, both, actually. Although I’d phrase it differently,” Draco concedes.

“How would you phrase it?” He sounds curious, but it’s probably just a stalling tactic.

Draco shrugs. “Are you able to get and maintain an erection? With stimuli? Without stimuli? If so, do you ejaculate normally? By normally, I mean, in the way you once did? If not, what are the differences? How often do you get erections if you do get them without physical stimulation? Do you have nocturnal emissions? Do you feel capable of having sex? Do you still desire sex physically?” Draco rattles off by rote, unblinking and voice steady.

Harry stares up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. “I don’t know if you sound more like a Healer or someone who’s trying to get a leg over.”

“Healer, I hope,” Draco supplies with a weak laugh. “Are you going to answer?”

“I just have trouble seeing you in the role,” Harry deflects. “How did you get started in it, anyway?”

“Just answer the damn questions, Potter,” Draco snaps, and immediately regrets it. He doesn’t want to talk about John, but why would Harry know? He sighs. “I’m sorry. But…”

Harry’s eyes are almost compassionate; he reminds Draco suddenly of the young boy he once hated, for more reasons than his face and colouring. “But there are some boundaries you have, as well.”

“Yes.”

“That’s fair.” There’s a long pause. “I can get erections. But there has to be… I mean, if there’s… stimuli, like you said. I haven’t without. I used to all the time. Wanking is… not fun. I don’t even try anymore. It takes too long to come.”

“Mm. But you feel a pleasure response?”

Harry closes his eyes briefly, his dark lashes fanning his cheek. “Yes. And then knots of frustration.”

Draco thinks for a moment. “How long is too long? Before climax?”

Shaking his head, Harry gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I used to, y’know, wank in the morning. It took me a couple of minutes. More like tossing off to clear my head, you know? I mean, I’ve taken longer. Who hasn’t? Sometimes you’re just…” He falters, here. “In the mood for… Well. But when you’re going for twenty minutes and nothing happens, it makes it sort of pointless.”

Draco shifts uncomfortably, ashamed of his body’s response to this line of questioning. He puts the clipboard in his lap. “Have you tried having sex with something or someone other than your hand? A different form of stimulation may help. And if it doesn’t, delayed response isn’t the worst thing. A lot of people can have perfectly satisfactory sex lives when that’s their only problem.”

“No, I have not had sex with someone else. Who would want to?” Harry says, voice tightening.

Draco draws back. Something dark and unpleasant flutters in his stomach, because, Salazar. He almost doesn’t care if he alienates the other man. “So you’re telling me that you’ve never looked at a disabled person and thought they were attractive?”

Harry blinks. “Well, I—”

“Because they were so far beneath you, is that right?” Draco jibes. “Why on _earth_ would someone consider a person in a chair? Those married husbands and wives who stay after one of them has an accident; that’s just out of pity, right?”

“Draco, that’s not what I was saying. I mean—it’s easier to—to overlook some things when you’re already in love with another person, isn’t it? Be attracted to them?”

Draco gives him a cold smile. “But not if they’re strangers. You’ve never seen a witch in a chair, or with a prosthetic and thought you’d like to bounce her against the mattress, and so of course it follows that no one ever thinks that way. Or maybe there are,” he adds, voice frosty with rage. “There are always those people who have kinks, right?”

“No!” Harry looks well and truly offended now. “Look, I have, okay. I mean, I’ve been attracted to all sorts of people. But you can’t say this… on me…” He waves his hand over his right thigh. “You can’t say this isn’t disgusting. You can’t say it’s not even…” His voice becomes constricted. “You can’t say it’s not even worse, because I’m me.”

“Harry,” Draco says slowly, trying to control the shaking of his voice, “Has the public finally convinced you that you are so _kind_ , so unbearably _noble_ —that you’re such a bloody _hero_ —that your perceptions are different from those of others? That because you’re _you,_ as you put it, you can see beauty where there isn’t any, and that others can’t appreciate it even where there is?”

Harry looks utterly poleaxed, his expression mingled shame and confusion and anger and a host of other things Draco can’t discern because he can’t make himself look at him any longer. He makes sure the pulleys are levered near the tub and pushes Harry’s chair closer to him and marches out.

Then he sits in his room, head in hands, feeling like the world’s biggest cock-up.

He’d finally, _finally_ managed to make some inroads into Potter after a month—fuck it, after twenty years—and he couldn’t keep his mouth shut for ten bloody minutes when Harry had said something idiotic, as he was well-known to do. He knows he needs to apologise, but can’t face the other man at the moment for many reasons, not the least of which being that he’s still angry at Harry’s undeniable arrogance and insensitivity.

He’s contemplating leaving Harry to his own devices altogether and calling it a night when a soft knock comes at his door.  Harry doesn’t wait to be invited—taking his cues from Draco no doubt—but rolls his chair in. His pyjamas are misbuttoned up the front and the right leg of his trousers is twisted, but he’s dry and carrying Draco’s clipboard in his lap. It must have dropped when he’d stormed out of the loo like a child.

“I’m sorry,” Harry offers quietly, holding out the clipboard.

Nonplussed, Draco closes his hand around it automatically. “I’m fairly certain it was me yelling at you in there.”

“Yes, but you’re an arse. Everyone knows I’m too much of a—what is it?—noble and kind hero to ever be that crass, right?” There’s a tentative smile lifting the corner of his mouth just so, inviting Draco in on the joke as part of his apology.

Draco feels himself soften fractionally. He sighs. “Right. And I’m just the Death Eater who likes to pick on the disabled.”

Harry laughs out loud for the first time since Draco’s employ. It’s a deep, richly amused sound, stemming from his chest. “There’s that, too.” He hesitates and his smile dwindles but doesn’t leave. “Ron and Hermione don’t do that with me anymore.”

“Yell?”

“Yell at me when I’m being a dick. Tell me when I’m fucking up,” he clarifies. “I’ve always had them to, you know, do that for me—”

“—Saves you from having to do it for yourself,” Draco interjects wryly. Harry nods a bit.

“—And it’s good. I think. I mean, it’s good when someone can make me look at things differently. Can get into my head that way.”

“We’ve never seemed to have a problem getting into each other’s heads, Potter,” Draco says tiredly.

“Harry,” he corrects firmly. “And yeah. But maybe that’s why… Here, look.” He nods downward and Draco’s eyes are drawn to his foot in its foot-rest, where all five of his toes are moving weakly. Draco’s eyes flash up to Harry’s face, which is shining with distinct pride. “

That’s fantastic,” Draco tells him honestly.

“Yeah, well.” He draws in on himself, shoulders high and hunched. “I can feel them better when they move, too. Mostly it was just a numb, tingling feeling, before.”

Draco is not a demonstrative man by any means, but he suddenly wants to touch Harry, to pour his approval into a hug or, more stupidly still, press a kiss to that flushed, smiling mouth. He looks away. “Feel up to more questions?”

“Um, yeah.” Harry rolls a bit closer. “Do you think you could do that spell for my leg again tonight before I go to bed?”

“Of course.  If you're in enough pain, I'll do it now, but it loses it's potency when used more than once a day,” Draco says softly, meeting his eyes.  Harry shakes his head with a smile and Draco continues, “All right, then. Now, where were we?”

“You were asking horribly inappropriate and invasive questions about my sex life,” Harry prompts. “What else do you want to know?”

 _Too much_ , Draco thinks with a hard swallow, but he just smiles a bit and shakes his head.

***

Harry throws himself into therapy after that. Draco tries to hold him back, admonishing him that pushing too hard and far can actually have a reverse effect on his progress, but he won’t listen.

They begin flexibility training on top of massage and magic-building exercises. Harry begins lifting weights, which facilitate his movement in so quick a time that Draco is often left without much to do between sessions; Harry no longer needs his help in and out of the tub or his chair or a myriad of other small physical chores he’d gotten accustomed to assisting with.  It resonates with Draco, seeing him this way. He can see in it the remarkable endurance it took to defeat the Dark Lord. It’s a resiliency that even Harry must not be aware that he had.

Their days consist of exercise and planning. Harry requests medical books and Draco makes a detour to the Manor to compile a selection for him. It’s the first time he’s aware of Harry showing an interest in his disability, although he worries privately what Harry will do if he comes up against the conclusion that his life will be markedly different than it once was, even if he’s able to regain full movement south of his hips.

In the mornings, Harry is up almost before Draco, soaking in his first tub. Then comes food, then massage. They make their way to the training room together and talk of Quidditch as though it was never something they wanted to murder each other over. Harry prefers Draco snarky, he finds, and so he loosens that small amount of professionalism he’d managed to maintain in the face of his oldest-enemy-turned-client-turned-possible friend. Harry has a surprisingly rapier sense of humour and he dangles it in front of Draco like a carrot he can’t help but devour.

In the training room, Harry sits in the EMS chair before letting himself be subjected to flexibility training and deep-tissue massage, which leaves him sweaty and panting with pain as his nerves make themselves known under Draco’s expert hands. He groans with complaint but does not object as Draco presses his thighs to his stomach, rotates his left leg at the knee, flips him over on his stomach and bends his hips backwards to a degree that shouldn’t seem possible but is. Then Draco allows him a soak in the whirlpool spa before lunch. 

In the eighth week, he finally gives in to Harry’s repeated teasing and to joins in. He is, after all, sweaty and exhausted as well.

Harry seems surprised but pleased when Draco excuses himself and returns after a few moments in his swimsuit. He lowers himself into the water, ignoring Harry’s steady eyes on him as the heat relaxes the tension in his muscles. He sits across from Harry and waves his wand below the water, creating a strong pulsing sensation out of the jet directly behind Harry’s spine.

Harry groans lasciviously. “God, that’s good.”

“Is it?” Draco hides a smile.

Harry moves his hand; a blurry motion under the froth of water, and suddenly Draco’s jet is making the same pulsing sensation.

He grins wickedly. “Isn’t it?”

“Did you just… wandlessly?”

“Oh.” Harry’s smile drops, then grows, revealing a flash of straight white teeth. “Yes. I didn’t think about it at all.”

“Can you turn it off?” Draco asks, fascinated.

Harry’s hand moves again, but the jets vibrate with just as much force. He shakes his head slowly. “Guess not,” he says lightly.

“Still,” Draco points out.

“Yeah.”

“You weak fuck.”

They grin at each other.

“So why haven’t you come in before, Draco?” Harry says in a lazy way, leaning his head back against the lip of the giant tub. He closes his eyes.

“Never sore enough, I guess,” Draco says, mimicking his lightness of tone. His heart beats too fast. He chalks up the sudden sheen of perspiration on his face to the heat of the water.

“I thought you were hiding your chest,” Harry murmurs, not opening his eyes.

“My—oh, no.” Draco chuckles. “I have one remaining scar from that, and it’s very faint. Snape took care of me.”

“He took care of all of us,” Harry says, quieter. He lifts his head and pins Draco with a look. “I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m sorry about a lot of things,” Draco returns without any sentimentality. “Not the least of which is trying to _Crucio_ you because you’d had the audacity to walk in on me crying.”

“Can I—” Harry inhales, swift and sharp. “Can I see?”

Surprised, Draco gives a slow nod. When he doesn’t move closer, Harry’s face turns inscrutable; he uses the buoyancy of the water to drag himself along the edge of the spa with his hands until he’s sitting so closely that Draco can feel the rasp of the hair on his thigh against his own. Draco pushes down on the balls of his feet, lifting from his seat slightly to clear the water, and points to the scar. It was the worst of his wounds, a slash so deep it had exposed the muscle above his breastplate, over his right pectoral. Harry stares at it hard, lifting his hand. His eyes flick to Draco’s, and Draco tries to give permission wordlessly, because for some reason he can’t speak. Harry drags his forefinger down the slashing line of it, pale and silver, from his sternum to his lowest rib. He removes his hand and lets it rest in the water.

“Harry…” Draco says, as the air around them shifts into something weighted and tense.

“Draco,” Harry counters, because when is it ever not a competition?

“Are you going to do something truly Hufflepuff like cry about it now? It’s been twenty years for Merlin’s sake,” Draco mutters.

Harry exhales loudly. “No, because then I’d be forced to _Crucio_ you, right?”

Draco snorts, and the moment is lost. He eases away from Harry, feeling a strange mix of loss and relief, like the indecisive swirl of the water around them.

***

After the spa, each day is lunch followed by weight training and, if Draco can manage it, Harry will spend some time outside on his patio. He doesn’t like to venture out, preferring the skin tone of a reclusive albino to potentially facing anyone he doesn’t know.

It’s almost week twelve before Draco finally snaps. He tosses a truly atrocious hooded jacket at the other man, who catches it out of the air with long-born skill. Harry looks at him questioningly.

“Put it on. It’s cool this afternoon, and we’re going out.”

Harry’s face becomes mulish. “I’m fine here.”

“You are not,” Draco says, exasperated. “And neither am I. And this isn’t healthy. And you said you’d do what I told you to.”

Harry’s face continues to flatten with every word. His eyes narrow at the last bit. “Agreeing to work with you is not the same as following your orders.”

“Whatever.” Draco waves an impatient hand. “There’s a cinema down the street. Let’s go see a movie.”

Harry’s eyebrows rise; he’s putting on his jacket as though he doesn’t even realise it. “You’ve seen Muggle movies?”

“Potter, I never figured you for such a snob,” Draco says snobbishly, making Harry laugh.

He casts a glamour over Harry’s face and then his own, letting go of a deep sigh of relief as they move together down the street. Draco offers to push Harry’s chair, but he shakes his head, eyes a bit wild and paranoid under his glamour, darting back and forth as though waiting for a slew of press and/or fans to come at him screaming. Through some process that Draco assumes involves the sacrifice of a virgin, however, no one seems to know the location of Harry’s flat, and they make their way uninterrupted down the block to the theatre.

Draco pays for two tickets as Harry awkwardly waits for him. They sit in companionable silence for two hours watching as a computer device attempts to take over the world, until the lights rise again. Draco turns to see Harry watching him instead of the credits, a small smile on his face. He reaches over and takes Draco’s hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go.

“Not so bad?” he ventures.

“No,” Harry agrees. “Not so bad.”

They institute twice-weekly forays into the outside world as a break from the rigors of training. Sometimes they stay at a café for thirty minutes, other times they’re gone for hours, enjoying the sunshine in the park or taking in a new film. (Harry is a nutter over those space-fantasy stories, while Draco prefers historical dramas because it’s an interesting peek at how Muggles used to live. And also what they consider drama.)

They invite Hermione, who comes occasionally, and Ron, who comes only once and ends up leaving early when Harry makes a flippant comment about how happy he must be now that he’s been promoted to Deputy Head Auror. It’s like a stone has been cast at Ron’s face, but even Draco cringes from the impact. Afterward, Draco tells her to “cut the shit, Hermione. Stop letting him get away with that.”

She looks wounded and thoughtful and doesn’t take his advice. Her visits drop in frequency again, but when she’s around, she’s all sharp eyes and silent observation between them, subtle and curious whenever Harry laughs or Draco automatically casts a relaxing spell over Harry when he notes he’s tensed up. Draco deflects her questions when she attempts to ask about their relationship.

“I told you,” he murmurs when Harry wheels to the restroom of the restaurant they’re having supper in. “There is an intrinsic intimacy between my clients and myself. And Harry is making wonderful progress.”

“I just think… I’ve seen that look on his face before,” Hermione says cryptically. “It seems like it’s getting complicated.”

Draco laughs in her face, then takes a swallow of dark, foamy lager. “What did you expect when you hired me? Harry and I have never been what one could call simple. It must have occurred to you that this could only end one of two ways: we either murder each other or become friends.”

“I’m more worried about the third option,” she admits quietly, giving him a significant look. “I can’t deny that Harry’s better, more like himself in a lot of ways. I know that’s because of you. But surely you’re aware that Harry…”

Harry rolls back up to the table, effectively silencing her, and Draco spends the next few weeks wondering what she would have said, but is too afraid to reinitiate the conversation.

***

Draco has been working with Harry for near four months when they make their first breakthrough in regards to Harry’s progress. It coincides with everything else going pear-shaped.

He is working on flexibility late one morning in the training room. Harry lies propped on his elbows on the padded table, a rivulet of sweat working its way down his temple as Draco bends his left leg at the knee as far as it will go, pushing his hips back so that the top of Harry’s thigh is pressed flush against his torso, one hand at Harry’s ankle, one hand on the back of his thigh. Harry hisses in discomfort but allows the pain, relaxing into it.

Draco loosens the bend, holding his leg in place for thirty seconds while he counts down and then— An answering push.

It’s small, and weak, and Draco doesn’t realise it’s happened at first; he’s immersed in the muscle memory of therapy and his mind has wandered. But then it comes again, and his eyes flash up to Harry’s, which look just as startled.

Draco takes a firmer hold on the back of Harry’s thigh, lowering his leg slightly and wrapping a palm to fit around the arch of Harry’s bare foot. “Do that again.”

There. A movement, a _press_.  Harry’s teeth are sunk so deeply into his lower lip that Draco fears blood will begin spilling, but he does it again, sweating hard, face frozen and intent.

Draco cracks a loud, delighted laugh, gently releasing his hold on Harry’s leg, and after a moment of stunned silence Harry echoes him, laughter boisterous in it disbelieving joy. Harry grips his hand tightly and Draco can’t stop laughing, can’t stop smiling because Harry is incandescently happy, and Draco has helped to make him that way.

Harry gives his arm a little tug, pulling Draco down and toward him and Draco doesn’t have time to think, or doesn’t want to, or doesn’t let himself maybe, because then Harry is kissing him, insistent and hungry, sucking Draco’s bottom lip into the warm heat of his mouth. He tastes like sweetened coffee, and a sure hand comes up to twine through Draco’s hair.

Draco presses him downward so that Harry is flat on his back, a gnawing hunger of his own making itself known inside his chest as he drapes himself over the other man and he stops letting himself be kissed and starts doing the kissing. Harry makes a growling noise in the back of his throat as their tongues rub against each other, sinuous and slick and Draco wants to rub _everything_ against him, wants to _devour_ him, wants to mark him with his teeth and tongue and body and leave him wrecked for any other man. He slides his hand down Harry’s bare chest and over the cotton of his briefs, palming his soft cock, feeling it swell in his hand as he grips it loosely and draws his arm up, then down.

“Draco,” Harry murmurs throatily into the kiss, and Draco swallows his own name, sweet on Harry’s tongue, sweet on his own now, too. He _wants_ this, he’s _wanted_ this, and when Harry’s hand finds his own cock, straining against his trousers, Draco shudders with pleasure even though it’s awkward because Harry can’t roll over—

Draco yanks out of Harry’s grip so fast his scalp stings; he’s left a few strands of white-blond hair in Harry’s fingers.

Harry is staring up at him with confused, lust-blown eyes, the green of them obscured by his pupils, which take up all the space. His erection bulges against the front of his briefs and Draco pants with the strain of not stepping forward again.  He takes another step back.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m your Healer,” he blurts out, wringing his hands to stop himself from reaching out.

Harry stares at him, enigmatic. His voice his hoarse. “Push my chair closer, yeah? Give me a few minutes.”

Draco silently obeys, face flaming.

He heads to his room, wondering where that came from. He’d convinced himself that the sexual part of the tension between them was coming from him alone, but when he examines his memory closely, he can’t be sure which one of them kissed first. Harry had been trying to hug him, perhaps. And then, so isolated from sexual touch, had responded to Draco’s desire?

He’s had clients who’ve professed to love him, before. It’s not even that rare a thing, actually. When you spend near every day with someone for months on end, when they are grateful to you for restoring something in them thought lost, those emotions get transferred into some greater need to own; they get repurposed into sexuality and infatuation. Draco always falls a bit in love with his clients back, because how could he not?

But he’s never lost his sense of control before, never crossed those boundaries, and now he’ll have to quit, just as Harry is making major strides of improvement.

This thought in mind, Draco stands. He’s left his wand in the training room, but he opens his trunk and begins pulling out his clothing from the wardrobe, folding his shirts and trousers and packing them away. He’s working on collecting his toiletries when a soft knock comes at his door and then Harry comes rolling in. He holds out Draco’s wand with a smile, then clutches it tighter when Draco goes to take it.

“What are you doing?”

Draco looks at him narrowly. “I can’t work for you anymore,” he says numbly. “That was… the most inappropriate thing I could think to do. I could lose my licence over it; I can’t even imagine what the wizarding world would say if they knew.”

“Because suddenly you care what the wizarding world thinks again?” Harry asks, voice even.

“No,” Draco concedes. “But you do.”

Harry’s jaw clenches. “You don’t have to leave. I don’t want you to.” He hesitates. “Please.”

Draco sits on the edge of his bed. He rubs a tired hand over his face. “Are you even gay?” he asks, as if that’s remotely the point.

Harry laughs, and the brooding look on his face disappears. “You really _don’t_ read the newspapers, do you? It was a pretty big scandal back when I was twenty. I’m bisexual.”

“Oh.”

“And, look,” Harry fumbles, sounding like he’s striving for a practical tone, “It was a moment of—of celebration. We lost our heads for a second. It doesn’t have to mean something if you don’t let it.”

Draco looks at him doubtfully. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I practically pinned you to the—”

Harry grins. “I remember. And it was good, god, it was _brilliant_ , okay? I’d be more than happy to do it again sometime. But I can see that this is… upsetting to you. It won’t be an issue I promise.” He pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, uncertain. “I never would have been able to do that without you. You really are the best at what you do. Please don’t leave.”

Draco stands and walks over to the window, looking out as he collects himself. A dull, drizzly rain patters against the glass, reflecting his mood.

The problem is that he wants to stay as well, wants to be there if and when Harry takes those first steps, wants to see that same joy lighting up his face.  He wants to know what the end of Harry's story is. But with that kiss, he let go of all pretence that he doesn’t have _Feelings_ —the kind he should not have—and he’s less worried about Harry’s behaviour than his own.

“It needs to be strictly professional between us,” he says, without turning around.

Harry makes a noise of objection. “You mean, we can’t be friends anymore or anything?”

Draco sighs, ignoring the hot little kernel of happiness glowing in his chest at Harry’s verbal acknowledgement that yes, they have somehow managed to become friends, after everything. He turns around and sees the strangely panicked look on Harry’s face.

He gentles his voice. “No, I don’t mean that. But we can’t—we can’t, ever…” He makes an abortive gesture between the two of them.

Harry nods gravely. “Understood. I’ll even start calling you Malfoy again, if you like.”

“Probably not necessary,” Draco tells him, after pretending to ponder it. He rather likes the way Harry says his given name.

“Good.” Harry sighs, then shoots him an irritated look. “Now can you put your things back? This room looks bizarre without your crap everywhere.”

Draco smiles.

***

Things are horridly uncomfortable for about two days. Draco knows he’s being a prat, but can’t quite help using his professionalism to guard against the feelings now flooding him.

He surreptitiously sends an owl and requests back copies of the Prophet, then stays up all night reading them. Harry wasn’t lying; the scandal of his liking men as well as women was a blow to the conservative wizarding community, and a cause for jubilation for the progressive side. For more than a year, the Prophet ran articles devoted to the subject of Harry and his sexuality. After that, they deigned to relax back into stalking him and his many paramours, writing profiles on anyone he chose to date.

It’s hard, seeing Harry in these photographs, first scowling at the pictures and then laughing with a wizard or a witch on his arm, looking happy and fit and like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’d dated a beautiful witch from South America for about two years when he was younger; more recently, he’s been photographed exclusively with men. He’s had three serious relationships since breaking up with Ginevra Weasley at the age of nineteen, and several dates and other partners of the sort who didn’t last beyond a month or two.

Draco grips the edges of the papers as he reads them, allowing himself to feel the flare of jealousy and longing and the goddamn wish that he’d known. Not that things would have been any different, because he’d had John then. But the shock of Harry’s sexuality could have been alleviated, at least, when taking this job.

He feels like a starving man who had been asked to prepare a feast for another person and only been told after the fact that it was a meal he could share any time he wanted. And he doesn’t know which could be worse, starving himself or partaking.

His job is meaningful for more reasons than one. He likes helping people, something he’d never considered about himself when he was a child, but there was also the admittedly large issue that every day he worked with someone, he felt as though he were repairing all of those things he had broken, apologising for all of the wrongs he had done in his misspent youth.

So he mentally pulls back from Harry because he can still hear his voice in his head saying that he’d be _more than happy to do it again_ , can still feel the hot press of Harry’s mouth against his own, which is a difficult thing to think about when you’re sliding oiled hands down someone’s flank and massaging their buttocks while they groan underneath you.

Finally, when Draco curtly excuses himself after a session on the third day, Harry gives him a grim look and says, “You said we’d be friends. Knock it the hell off, Draco, I’m not going to attack you.”

And so he does.

He feels a little bad in not correcting Harry’s assumption that he’s at fault, but it does ease the way a bit for him to start taking Harry out again to lunches and the movies. The teasing laughter slowly encroaches upon their conversations again, and Draco relaxes into their former working friendship. His feelings are a problem, but they’re not a problem he can’t handle.

Meanwhile, Harry works steadily. After another few weeks, he’s able to displace Draco’s hand with his foot, pushing it steadily six inches before he gives up and lies, shaking, against the table.

Draco begins him on leg lifts, about which he is angry when he cannot accomplish them at first, and then resigned to the pain of continuing to try. This is what he has always done, as far back as Draco can remember.

He won’t go so far as to say that Harry’s depression and anxiety were unfounded; Draco understands more than many how traumatic injuries—of the body, of the soul—can affect your outlook on life, your desire to do the things you’ve loved, your relationships with other people. But this Harry—who wakes up on time and stubbornly insists he’s strong enough for another go after a few minutes, and jokes that Draco’s hair makes him look like a suburban father trying to emulate a Muggle boy band—this is the Harry he’s always known of. The Harry whom he’d desperately wanted to know as a boy, until those feelings got sublimated into a furious, resentful desire to hurt him.

It’s as if Harry understands; the more Draco cares about him, the more careful Harry is about revealing his attraction, which Draco can see in the way Harry looks at him as he lowers himself into the spa, green eyes as hot as the water; in the way Harry’s face darkens with unspoken arousal when Draco massages his upper thighs in slow circles that suddenly feel purposefully sensuous.

But Harry either does not want him enough or wants his help too much to risk losing it, and so he does not cross the line again, something Draco simultaneously hopes he will and will not do. He takes to masturbating in the shower every morning before meeting Harry for breakfast, and then again before training so as to ensure that an embarrassing situation doesn’t arise. He keeps his eyes resolutely on whichever part of Harry’s body he touches and does not allow them to wander, but when he is alone he sees Harry’s gaze, hot and hungry; he sees his own hands cover Harry’s skin.

Love is simple for Harry; perhaps because he had so little of it in his formative years, he dishes it out like heaping servings of dinner to anyone he cares about, and Draco knows that this now includes him. (For the right reasons or wrong, it doesn’t even matter.) But Draco, for all of the doting his parents did, has never felt certain when it comes to love—has never felt secure in it. He hoards it like a carefully protected secret because he knows that which Harry does not: if you do not reveal your love, even to yourself, it will hurt far less when it is lost to you.

This situation is untenable, and Draco knows himself. He knows their relationship cannot last without breaking.

He just needs to be gone before it does.

***

Counterpoint: Harry

Harry has gleaned a great many things about Draco since they began to live and work in harmony with one another.

For instance, Draco pretends to be a morning person, but is not. He often works late into the night, the light burning under his door when Harry hears a noise and gets up to check. He disguises his grumpiness with cups of tea and a rigid attention to detail at first light. Draco also doesn’t like the taste of wine, which for some reason shocked the hell out of him because he’s perhaps the poshest person Harry has ever socialized with, notwithstanding the foreign dignitaries he was always being asked to greet.

He also pretends to be neat, but he’s a bit of a slob, forever forgetting to pick up a file from the desk in Harry’s sitting room, papers spread out for days as if he’s in the middle of reading them. He doesn’t put his teacups in the sink after drinking them, and they stain Harry’s furniture with rings that take four polishing charms to eradicate. And he leaves his shoes and socks in the middle of his room, piled on top of one another, as if they’re puppies learning to play. It’s probably because he was raised with house-elves at his constant beck.

But Draco is also brilliant, and driven, and kind. He may be the kindest person Harry knows, though he covers it up with cutting jibes and sanctimonious prattle. His sneer could be legendary (it is, in Harry’s mind), his cold tone used to break down the hardest of criminals. But when he smiles, he reminds Harry of Teddy when he was a child; his eyes light up with laughter and wonder, his lips curl irrepressibly, flashing even, white teeth, his pointy chin softens.

For someone who spent so many years glaring daggers at Harry’s back, Draco now makes him feel… safe.

Harry has been renowned for his power as a wizard, for his strength and unrelenting determination. He is not Hermione; he is not Draco. He knows he is not the most brilliant, but his mind is always working, and he understands after Draco’s outburst about people with disabilities that Draco must have loved someone disabled, very much. The knowledge tucks around him like a warm blanket; Draco does not see his disability. Draco sees _him_.

He’s not sure when he becomes aware that Draco is attracted to him, but he knows that he’s aware of it first.

Grey eyes linger on his skin and then flick away, too quickly. Lips are licked, and then bitten with repressed arousal. A hand lingers here, there, as far away from clinical as one can get.

He doesn’t think Draco _means_ it when they begin dating; for all he knows, it might be normal for therapists and clients to go out to candlelit dinners and have drinks with their friends and hold hands at the cinema. But to Harry, they are building something different, something apart from their daily grind. This is where they get to know each other away from school and the work they do. And Harry begins to feel more like himself, with every hour spent in Draco’s company.

When Harry moves his leg for the first time, they are both astonished. And then laughter comes, loud and gasping, and then Harry can’t stand it anymore, the sharp, clean smell of Draco’s aftershave, the light in his eyes, his nearness. Harry pulls him close and kisses him.

That kiss.

The kiss blazes through him like Fiendfyre, unable to be banked once it’s been lit. Draco’s mouth is desperate and skilled and Harry _wants wants wants_ , in a way he hasn’t in years. Sex in the past has always been something simple, lovely, a relief and pleasure to be had and then remembered. But he wants to _inhale_ Draco, wants to keep him there, feel the weight of his body until they both turn to dust.

The kiss obliterates everything Harry has ever known of attraction and arousal and shapes it into something new.

Draco pulls away and his eyes are appalled and guilty, but the flush on his skin tells a different story; it has Harry cursing his body again for being unable to go after him.

When Draco leaves, Harry takes himself in hand for the first time in nearly a year, fondling himself with the memory of Draco’s touch, stroking himself with the fantasy of Draco’s tongue. He’s so frustrated it should only take seconds, but long minutes pass as Harry jerks roughly at his cock and then nearly weeps with relief as he spills over his fist, coating his hand with thick, sticky come. He is breathless with triumph at the accomplishment, haphazard and difficult though it may have been.

He has a vague plan to go to Draco’s room and tell him that it’s okay, that they care about one another, that he can have sex, that he _wants_ to have sex, but when he arrives Draco is panicked and packing, and everything in him stills. He sees he wary regret on Draco’s face, and it’s all he can do to hold his tongue, to not force the issue, because Draco is somehow fragile in his guilt, as though he thinks he’s the one who made the first move when in fact Harry has been making them for months.

So Harry reassures him they can be friends, even as he wonders how to make that happen.

There is something different now when they are together, like magic or electricity—or a combination of both, amplifying each other instead of cancelling one another out. There is a whole shift in the pattern of their interaction. Because of the kiss, yes. But more, because Harry realises that _this is what love is_. Love is being a comfort when one of you is afraid.

And Harry knows now that he loves Draco.

Falling in love with Draco happened so slowly it felt like watching the sunset on a late-summer afternoon. It felt like brewing Amortentia, a time-consuming and delicate process, after which you could sense the things you most desire. Falling in love with Ginny twenty years ago is the closest comparison Harry has, and it does not compare in any way: he remembers not understanding his own frustration and then a sudden click of knowledge, her bright red hair in his hands and her mouth under his in front of a crowded room.

It was different with Draco. He saw himself falling and could do nothing to stop it, even as he wondered if he wanted to.

Part of him thinks he should have let Draco leave when he’d come in to find him packing. But when he thinks of him, it’s as though he’s taking tiny sips of air; his lungs refuse to fill to capacity and the lack of oxygen leaves him dizzy.

He thinks he could do it, without Draco’s help. He can see the progress in his abilities. His wandless magic is touch-and-go, but undeniably _there_. His limbs are gaining strength, slowly but surely; Draco admonishes him daily to slow down, to go at a safe pace lest he injure himself again. He could find another physiotherapist, one who could take him those last few miles to cross the finish line.

He cannot have this beautiful thing that he wants, every day. He cannot touch him or kiss him or even walk beside him, possibly ever. But if he keeps Draco _with_ him, they can at least revel in their hard work when it’s complete. He owes Draco that much.

Draco finds him attractive; he has never shown the slightest moue of disgust at Harry’s body. His dick, certainly, had responded to Harry’s kiss and touch, his breath becoming fast and shallow as he’d clung to Harry and let him card through that silky hair. But, as much as he may care about Harry, he’s made it clear he does not want a relationship; he does not want to jeopardize his career for something that he feels would be short-lived.

Still, there is a loveliness in having him as a friend, too, something Harry had often wondered about right after the War. What if, instead of just testifying for Malfoy, he’d approached him? What if they’d talked? What if they had been able to put away their venom for each other as the two people who shared the strangest linking of commonalities?

So, now they are friends.

It is an ache Harry carries around every day, like the phantom pain in his missing limb, compartmentalised so he barely needs to acknowledge its presence because if he does, the world will fall apart, which he can’t allow to happen. Because loving Draco makes Harry better, happier, less selfish.

Draco betters him in other ways, too. When they relax back in to their normal pattern after the kiss, he sharpens his wit on Harry’s ego, telling him that he needs to let his friends in again. He never asks what happened that night, with Ron (it’s likely he knows most of the story anyhow, through Hermione), but he tells Harry that he’s wrong for how he’s been treating them, that they are what Harry has to live by, that his friends are the real legacy of his life.

Harry makes several attempts at talking to Ron and finally manages to make it through a full dinner without insulting him (though the abrasiveness is still there, the entire time, on the tip of his tongue). He worries that something has broken irreparably between them because of his own regret and bitterness, something that—if he’s honest—isn’t fully gone. But after that night, there’s a slow unbending to Hermione, as well. Her smile, so brittle in months past, softens into full bloom, making her look like a girl again. When she kisses his cheek at the end of the night, her expression is fond and happy, not that worried tightness he has come to expect.

Afterward, Draco enfolds his long fingers around Harry’s hand; it’s the first time he’s touched him personally since before, and says something that seems like it would sound stupid except that Draco never sounds stupid.

“I’m proud of you,” he says simply, and Harry believes him.

Harry is in love with a former Death Eater. A man who, against all odds, has become one of his closest friends.

The situation cannot last, Harry knows. He will break if he does not do something to mitigate his longing, and it will drive Draco away.

He doesn’t know how long he can hold on.


	5. Reaching

“You should go out tonight,” Draco announces over an early dinner one evening. He’s been thinking about it frequently, and wants to do this right.

Harry slows his chewing; he swallows. “All right. Where? Movies?”

“No.” Draco takes a deep breath. “I mean, _you_ should go out today. Allow yourself to be seen. Diagon Alley would be best.”

Harry pauses mid-bite. He stares at Draco as he slowly places his fork onto his plate and takes a careful drink of water. Draco works to maintain his neutral expression. 

Finally, “Why in Merlin-fuck would I want to do that?” 

Harry phrases the question in an unnervingly mild way that still somehow manages to invoke Draco’s fight-or-flight response. He dithers silently for a moment and then chooses to freeze. 

Draco smiles at him faintly. “Because you’ve been avoiding the wizarding world for over a year now, as I understand it, and you’re a wizard.”

“A lot of wizards live in the Muggle world,” Harry points out, a stubborn tone creeping into his voice. He arches a dark brow in challenge.

“Most of them aren’t you,” Draco says lightly. He looks away; the tension in the air is as thick as the angry magic vibrating off of Harry’s skin.

Harry takes a deep breath, a gesture which Draco appreciates. “I mean it, Draco. Why should I let people see me before—you know how I feel about the press. Well,” he adds, smirking, “you do, _now_.”

Draco refuses to blush, thinking about the game they had played a few nights prior. 

In the interest of keeping Harry’s mind occupied, he’d followed Harry’s lead in a game of Truth or Drink, which was really just as simple and adolescent as it sounded. They had stayed away from previously agreed-upon topics such as the curse that gave Harry his injury and why Draco had chosen his line of work, as well as silently avoiding the subject of their kiss. 

But Draco had still managed to harvest some formerly unknown information about the other man that he’d always wondered about, such as how Harry’s five least favourite people during his time at Hogwarts had been, in order, Umbridge, Snape, Lucius, and Rita Skeeter, followed distantly by Draco himself, a fact which surprised Draco to no end. (He thought he’d be at the top. He’d also expected Voldemort to be on the list, but couldn’t argue with Harry’s opinion that the Dark Lord had barely been a person at that point.) He’d always hated publicity until he’d learned simply to not give a fuck about it. His first kiss had been at the age of fifteen with Cho Chang, and had not gone well, but his first sex dream had been the year prior and had included Oliver Wood, and it had gone splendidly.

Draco had answered most of those same questions because it was fair (Harry, Granger, Weasley, Dumbledore and Longbottom were his top five because, he admitted, he’d been a twat; he’d hated losing the Snitch to Harry more than even losing the House Cup; his first kiss has been with Pansy in fourth year and had gone quite well until they somehow ended up losing their virginities to each other from it, and then it had been a disaster as Pansy had been even less happy than Draco to discover he was gay), and drank on the last because his first sex dream had been, obviously, about Harry. Harry shoving him up against the gritty stone walls of the castle, mid-fight, and discovering that Draco had an erection, then suddenly deciding to tend to it, to be exact.

Draco had known at the time that Harry’d had suspicions when he’d taken a drink rather than answer, but the knowing, smoky look he’s receiving from the other man now makes him burn with an aroused sort of resentment. He clears his throat.

“You’re deflecting,” he says calmly. He takes a sip of tea and looks at Harry over the rim of his cup.

Harry flushes, his gambit wasted. “I’m really not… entirely. I do hate publicity.”

“You also said you don’t care about it as much, anymore,” Draco reminds him, “and that you got used to it when you found it could help important projects.”

“And I suppose I’m the project?” Harry says, sounding snide.

Draco hides his surprise. Harry has been so affable lately, his face bright and expressive, that the sneer that slips over his features looks like a mask. He puts down his tea. “No. But important, nonetheless.”

Harry’s shoulders, high and tight, sag a bit. “I don’t want people to see me like this. When I can walk again—”

Exhaling hard, Draco shakes his head. “What if you need a cane? Have an obvious limp? What if you don’t like the look of your prosthetic?”

“I’ll deal with it then.”

“By hiding away,” Draco jeers softly. Harry’s eyes widen, glittering, behind his spectacles. “You might have gotten a bad deal growing up, Potter, but as far as I know, since then, your life has been as charmed as it once was fucked. Maybe the reason you ‘learned to live with’ publicity was because it started painting you with a decent brush for once.” He sighs. “There are a lot of people who look up to you. Of course, it’s not fair. But think of those people like you, who’ve read that their hero has become a recluse since he can’t be a god anymore. Think of those children in wizarding families that can’t walk—oh, yes, they exist—for whom it would make the deepest impression to see Harry bloody Potter rolling down Diagon Alley as though he doesn’t have a single thing to be ashamed of.”

Draco stands, wiping his fingers on his napkin and dropping it on his plate. “It’s up to you.” He walks out of the room.

It’s manipulative, Draco knows (the stupid Sorting Hat would call it cunning, actually), but every word is also true. Harry works fanatically toward his goal of resuming his former life, as though it’s still the only possible satisfactory conclusion for him, unable to contemplate a future in which that may come true. It keeps Draco up nights, wondering what will happen to Harry if he turns out to be wrong.

Fortunately, Draco is right in wagering that the blasted man still has that solid streak of heroism running through his damaged spine and a core of reckless courage in his heart. 

He’s not in the sitting room for ten minutes, perusing the shelves for books, when he hears Harry roll up behind him. He turns around. 

Harry’s face is unhappy but resigned. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?” Perhaps it’s too innocently said, but it does garner an answering twitch from the corner of Harry’s frustrated mouth.

“I’ll make you a deal, Malfoy,” Harry says abruptly. His surname brings a twinge with its use, but Draco supposes he deserves it, so. Harry’s lips curl up at the edges. “I’ll go out as myself if you come with me.”

Distracted by Harry’s sly little smile, Draco hesitates, confused. “What do you mean? Of course, I’ll be with you.”

“As yourself?” Harry smirks.

Draco swallows hard, feeling air lodge in his throat. Harry is giving him a choice, then: to publicly join him in Diagon Alley—a place he hasn’t stepped foot in for fifteen years—or continue to allow Harry to hide out in the relative peace of his flat and never know what could happen otherwise.

He bites his lip. Harry’s eyes gleam with triumph.

And then, Draco gives one, short nod. “We’ll leave in thirty,” he says, curtly, and heads up the stairs, heart thundering.

Apparently, he hasn’t learned yet how to let Harry challenge him without doing anything he can to win.  
*** 

The evening weather is lovely for early June, which gives Harry no excuse for the cloak he bundles himself in. Draco makes an exasperated sound when he sees it and wrestles it off of Harry’s back, though not without a bit of a fight; Harry’s hands grip his wrists tightly, first in objection, then in play, and Draco can feel Harry’s hot breath against his cheek as he leans down to draw the garment away from him. When Harry is finally sitting in his denims and a t-shirt, Draco is covered in a light mist of sweat and a telling flush he can feel all the way from his scalp down to his chest.

But whatever that moment was, it passes with ease and leaves Harry looking much more relaxed, though his jaw his firm and his eyes vaguely hunted. 

“We’re not going to be long?” he asks, and there’s only the faintest wobble to his timbre, so slight that Draco wouldn’t hear it if Harry’s voice hadn’t been the one consistent thing he’d listened to for months. 

Draco lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder; Harry’s body heat burns his palm through the material of his shirt. “No. Why don’t you pick two shops? We can head there. If you find it’s not too difficult, perhaps we can stop at Fortescue’s for dessert.”

Harry nods gamely, and they set off. The Leaky Cauldron is only two streets over from Harry’s flat, so they set a quick pace. The pub is dim when they arrive, darker inside than it is out, and yet even Draco notices that every head pivots to stare at them the moment they enter. He looks down to see Harry quirking an _I told you so_ look up at him, and he shrugs. 

Harry took a moment to flick his wand at the settings of his wheelchair, allowing it to navigate on its own according to his desired destination, now that they’re away from the prying eyes of Muggles, and the chair whirrs softly as it comes to life, the softening charm on its wheels buffering the uneven wooden floor as they wind through tables toward the back.

They pass the bar and Draco has begun to think they’ve made it unscathed but for a few wagging tongues when a high, feminine voice rings out, “Harry? Nev, it’s Harry!”

Harry has a pained look on his face, but he pastes a smile on as his chair slows and turns for him. Draco blinks in astonishment as Neville Longbottom levies himself over the bar neatly rather than waste time by simply walking around it. 

Longbottom has changed in the years since Draco has seen him; he’s gotten taller than he’d been, even at seventeen when he’d topped Draco’s own height by an inch or so. He’s also lost the last of the roundness to his face; his cheekbones are high, his jaw square, his nose straight and patrician. His navy eyes gleam with happiness as he takes three long strides to reach them. Draco is startled (and a little appalled) at his initial burst of attraction to him and he smiles ruefully to himself, then flicks his eyes down to where Harry sits patiently.

Longbottom crouches down without thinking, placing a long-fingered hand over Harry’s forearm. “I didn’t know you were coming in today! Why didn’t you owl? Did you want dinner? We’ve been sending you letters!” he says, all on a rush.

Harry grimaces apologetically. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” he says, lying quite effectively from what Draco can tell. “I haven’t been… well enough, mostly, to receive visitors. And I’ve let myself get a bit distracted with, you know, recovery and therapy and such. I would’ve owled, but I guess I thought you’d still be at Hogwarts.”

“Oh. Yeah, I am. But it’s a Friday and Hannah couldn’t get away.” Longbottom’s brow furrows. He rocks backward on his heels, coming to a standing position again as he scrutinises Harry. “Wow, you look great. Really, so much better than… uh, when I saw you last.”

“Thanks, Nev,” Harry says with a dry smile. He lifts his voice slightly. “Hi, Hannah!”

The face from the picture in Harry’s study finally clicks; Hannah Something, a prefect from Hufflepuff. She grins at them from across the bar. “Hi, Harry, good to see you!”

Longbottom then gives a sudden, noticeable intake of breath, and Draco rolls his eyes internally. He mimics Harry and pastes a smile onto his face, looking at the other man again, who has finally noted his identity.

“Malfoy,” he blurts, glancing back and forth between him and Harry.

Harry nods, looking almost smug, damn him. “Yeah. He’s my—”

“Friend, believe it or not. After all this time,” Draco interjects easily. “I’m also a physiotherapist these days, and have been helping Harry’s a bit to plan a therapeutic treatment for his legs. Longbottom, good to see you.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly up in surprise, but he doesn’t call Draco out on the lie. Frankly, Draco is unsure why he feels it necessary at all, except that some unexamined part of him wriggles uncomfortably at their actual working relationship becoming public knowledge. 

Longbottom nods thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes. “Is it?”

Feeling suddenly obstinate, Draco makes a non-committal noise. Then Harry speaks up, drawing their eyes away from their locked gaze. He seems exasperated. “For Merlin’s sake, Nev, it’s been a long time. He’s helping m… my therapist, and his ideas are actually working a bit. Lay off.”

There’s an easing of Longbottom’s expression, and Draco’s tense muscles relax. “Yeah. Sorry, Harry. Malfoy. I guess, good to see you too. Thanks for… Y’know, helping Harry. Any, um, friend of his is a…” It seems he can’t make himself finish the sentence, but Draco appreciates the start of it anyway. He nods.

“Likewise.”

“Anyway, we’re just popping into Diagon Alley for a bit, so we’ll leave you to it,” Harry says. When Longbottom gives a gentle frown, Harry adds, “I’m on sort of a specific sleep schedule, or I’d stay longer.”

The creases bracketing Longbottom’s mouth soften and he smiles again warmly, then leans down without warning and pulls Harry into a tight hug. Stunned, Harry glances at Draco, but he returns the hug with just as much force, nodding to whatever Longbottom is saying into his ear. When Longbottom finally pulls away, he looks flushed and happy. If the light were any better, Draco might think he had tears in his eyes.

He and Harry proceed into Diagon Alley, which is so filled with people it makes Draco blanch. There’s a reason he’s avoided setting foot as much as possible on English soil in the last several years.

Right after Draco had been found not guilty at the ripe age of eighteen, he’d ventured out into Diagon Alley, largely due to the actions of the man sitting next to him now. He reasoned that since people knew Harry Potter had spoken for him, things would be easier, somehow. It hadn’t been all wishful naivety on his part, either; his mother had been able to do her shopping with a minimum of fuss, after all.

But his mother didn’t have a Dark Mark on her arm. 

While he knew there would be people who objected to his presence, he’d been so ready to resume his life before the war—charmed, easy, relaxed—that it never really occurred to him that his mere presence in Twilfit and Tatting’s (where they refused to serve him) would start a riot that would end with him barely able to Apparate away with his mother’s wand, bleeding from multiple jinxes thrown from a distance, the bloodlust of the roaring crowd still ringing in his ears for an hour after he’d returned to the Manor. 

He’d moved to France the following morning.

But now it seems simply like the bustling, peaceful place he’d so enjoyed visiting as a child. No one has noticed him yet, or Harry for that matter, and Draco supposes his extended absence has mostly done its job with the public, although he feels a bit like sicking up, being around so many wizards who likely know at least one person who’d been part of that mob. 

The soft hum of voices buzz around them for so long that Draco finally realises that he and Harry have been in the same spot for too long than could be considered normal. He looks down at the other man, whose black hair highlights the washed-paleness of his face. Harry is staring out ahead of them, eyes narrowed and focused, as though making some sort of determination in his mind, and he startles when Draco lays a hand on his shoulder. 

He looks up. Breathes. Draco ventures an encouraging smile. “Where do you want to go?”

“Er…” Harry runs a considering tongue over his upper lip, a flash of pink that strangely settles Draco’s jittering insides. “I guess, we could go to George’s place?”

“George’s place?”

“Weasley,” Harry supplies, looking like he doubts his own information. “He has a joke shop, at ninety-three.”

“Ah.” Draco smirks. “Yes, I remember. I also remember refusing to allow myself to set foot inside, despite how, um, _interesting_ their displays were. Didn’t talk to Blaise for a month after I ate a Puking Pastille—not because it made me sick, but because he’d bought it from them.”

“Dick,” Harry mutters to him, but he sounds more cheerful. 

They stop at Slug and Jigger’s so that Draco can pick up some potion supplies. The shop girl on duty looks to be barely out of Hogwarts, so does not recognise Draco, and the only attention she pays to Harry is a bland smile in his direction while Draco hands over a few Galleons for his purchases. 

“So far so good,” Draco murmurs as they leave.

“Just wait,” Harry tells him grimly.

They’re almost at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes—Draco can see the bright lights of the shop—when the first witch stops in her tracks, staring dead-on at Harry’s face. She shouts his name, first as a question and then as a war-cry, and soon there’s the heavy buzz of people talking loudly and courageously stepping closer, crowding them in the street as though Harry is a prophet and they’d like to lay hands on him. 

Harry grits his teeth but smiles in an easy, practiced sort of way that Draco thinks should fool no one, but somehow does. “Just here for some shopping,” he announces to one babbling wizard following close. “Heading off home soon,” he says to a witch who leans down to look at his scar. “Nice to meet you, too,” he tells a little boy of about ten, who looks star-struck. “Recovering nicely,” he murmurs genially to a reporter who has materialized out nowhere.

The crowd has closed in and Draco finds himself, for one frightening moment, transported to that boy of eighteen again. Harry’s chair has come to a complete stop, unable to proceed forward without running over the cluster of people and his face is getting tighter with the strain of holding onto his smile. Draco doesn’t think about it; he pulls his wand and casts a Protego to clear the way. The crowd separates, pushed apart by invisible force, gasping with astonishment and indignation. 

He hears his own name, then, mumbled in disbelief and breathed in shock as they make the rest of the way toward Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. George waits by the door, eyebrows raised. He holds it open as Harry’s chair rolls through and arches a single, red eyebrow at Draco, who nods at him as they pass.

“Harry!” George says with a wicked grin. “I’d barely know it’s you if not for your distinctly subtle entrance.”

Harry snorts. Draco is still looking at the crowd, who for some reason seem content to wait outside for the moment. “Are you going to close up?”

“Nah,” George says, walking off toward the register, leaving them to follow. “It’s a fancy bit of charm-work we had to institute following the war; the wards won’t allow someone in if they’re seeking a peek at one of the Golden Trio. We’ve got a few customers left, but I’ll kick ‘em out if it becomes a thing. So! Draco Malfoy!”

“Yes?” he responds cautiously.

“Are you still the utter little shit you were in school?” George asks. His mouth twitches.

“Yes,” Harry answers for him with feeling, then grins when George laughs. Draco sneers at both of them, holding back a smile because they don’t deserve it.

“You always have had the worst taste in friends, Harry. …Don’t tell Hermione I said that. She’s as bad as mum.”

“Shouldn’t say things you don’t want to come out at a family dinner,” Harry shoots back.

George’s smile slips. It’s a bizarre look on him, even for Draco to see. “Well, there’s not much chance of that lately, is there?”

The silence that falls is strange. Draco wants to fill it with something, but doesn’t know what. Harry’s face has taken on that tight cast again, and he drops his gaze.

“I know,” he says finally. “I’ve just… needed… time.”

“To do what, exactly?” George asks. He leans against the counter, deceptively casual. “As far as I can tell, you don’t _do_ anything. Except make my mother and my stupid brother cry.””

Harry freezes. “George,” he says in a low voice.

“No, no,” George murmurs breezily. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ve made Ron cry plenty of times myself. Although it’s a lot funnier to see at twelve than at nearing forty. But it’s not as if you owe mum something like two-hundred responses to owls. She thinks you’re not even allowing them in anymore. And it’s not as if Ron, you know, _saved your life_ or anything.”

“I didn’t ask him to,” Harry bursts out furiously, and they all stop. 

George’s throat is working silently as he gazes at his friend and Draco wants to touch Harry, wants to stroke the tense lines of his face. He wants to place a hand over Harry’s mouth to erase his last words. He does none of those things, and they are interrupted by a couple with their young daughter, waiting awkwardly on the fringe of their bubble. The little girl is holding a fluffy, purple round thing that squeaks in her hands. A pygmy puff; Draco remembers forbidding Pansy from getting one those weird things. She didn’t listen and kept having Blaise hide it in his bed.

“We’d like to buy this?” the mother says after a moment, making it a question. 

George straightens away from the counter. His smile trembles a bit as he rings them up. “Remember to find a good name for her,” George counsels the girl softly. “She’ll bond better with you as soon as you do.”

“I’m naming her Eliza,” the girl mumbles, just as the mother says, “Is that—Are you Harry Potter?”

Harry gives her a curt nod, softening the gesture with a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi! Oh, my goodness, Arnold, look!” 

The father is staring with a slack jaw. “I went to Hogwarts only five years after you,” he says, like this is something to be proud of. Draco restrains the urge to laugh.

“Did you like it?” Harry asks politely.

“Loved it. I’m a Hufflepuff man, myself, but some of my best mates were in Gryffindor!” he offers eagerly.

Harry’s smile is more genuine. “That’s nice. Interhouse Unity and all that.” He jerks a thumb at Draco, who starts. “Draco was in Slytherin, and now he’s one of my best friends.”

Draco’s heart stops. “Um, yeah,” he says weakly. “I suppose that’s true. Lucky him.”

“Draco… Malfoy?” Arnold guesses, gawping at them.

“The one and only,” Harry says with a sly tone. “I hope, at least.”

Draco knocks him in the shoulder with his fist, and Harry snickers. 

“Where did your leg go?” the little girl suddenly interjects curiously.

“Maggie!” The mother looks horrified. “I’m so sorry, I mean, of course we read in the papers about—but love, it’s very rude to ask a question like that.”

“No, it’s okay,” Harry says slowly. He looks at the little girl. She blond and rather pretty. Harry’s voice gentles, but there is something dark in his eyes. “I got hurt at work.”

“You fight bad people. Like Boldemorm.”

“Voldemort, yes,” Harry corrects gently, a warmth coming over his face that Draco has certainly never seen before when someone was voicing the Dark Lord’s name. “Yes, that’s what I do.”

“And they hurt you?”

“Well, just one did. But I’m getting better,” he says.

“Can you walk at all?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay.” She holds out her weird new pet. “Do you want to pet Eliza?”

Harry gives the animal a few soothing strokes, scratching near its head with his blunt fingertips, murmuring something under his breath that makes the little girl huff a soft laugh.

As soon as they leave, the smile disappears from Harry’s face. He looks up at Draco. “I need to get out of here,” he says shakily, and it’s not a request. Draco stares at him for a minute, at his clenched hands and gritted jaw, at the sheen of sweat on his temple, and nods decisively.

“Yes. George, where can I take him to Apparate?”

George’s voice is hesitant. “Harry, mate, you don’t need to leave. I just think we need to talk a bit.”

Draco doesn’t look away from Harry. “It’s not about you, George. Where can I take him?”

He hears the other man gust out worried sigh. “Right. Room in the back. Can you Apparate that thing?”

“I can shrink it,” Draco says, taking hold of Harry’s chair and wheeling him with purpose and wheeling him into a staff room behind the counter. 

He lifts Harry onto a couch and shrinks the wheelchair, stuffing it in his pocket. Harry has started to breathe in short, sharp bursts, his body trying too hard to intake oxygen, his mind not allowing him the chance. Draco scoops him up into his arms and Apparates them home, staggering slightly as they land in Harry’s sitting room; Harry has gotten heavier in the last few months.

He walks them over to Harry’s couch and sits down heavily, keeping the other man in his lap. His panic attack is escalating. Harry’s face has gotten red; his breath comes in wheezes, his hands clutch futilely at Draco’s shoulders, his eyes are wild and unfocused. Draco touches him, stroking his back with one hand, holding on to his chin with the other until Harry meets his gaze.

“You’re okay,” he says softly, over and over. “We’re home, you’re with me, and you’re okay.”

It takes several minutes, but something finally shifts in Harry’s face. A dam, near bursting, holds his pained expression in place, but his breath and heartbeat slows under Draco’s slow, sure voice and stroking hand. He nods, green eyes never leaving hiss and then he leans forward, forward, until his cheek is on Draco’s shoulder. His nose presses against Draco’s neck.

They sit like that for a while, in silence. Harry’s breath is warm and moist on the side of his throat, his weight a welcome, heady thing over Draco’s thighs. His hands have stopped clutching and begin, instead, to mimic Draco’s movements; soft fingers combing through his hair, a gentle palm sliding over his shoulder. 

Draco clears his throat and shifts Harry in his lap. “Was it the crowd?”

There’s a long pause. “It was the girl,” he finally answers huskily.

“Because she asked about your leg?”

Harry’s voice cracks. “Because she-she looked like…” He makes a strange sound, like a sob that’s trying to be something else.

She looked like the girl who died, Draco surmises, as Harry’s tremors reappear. His heart aches—he can’t even imagine. Seeing Harry’s gentleness with her, the way he’d treated that boy in the street… There’s a softness about Harry when it comes to children, a sweetness that he reserves for them alone, as though it’s his responsibility to make sure none of them ever go through what he did as a child. 

Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and pulls him in close. It’s awkward, because of his sideways angle, but Harry adjusts himself, pivoting his waist to press his chest flush against Draco’s as his arms tighten around his shoulders, and then they are cheek to cheek. Harry’s mouth is so close to his ear that his lips brush against it whenever Draco twitches, but still he doesn’t move, allowing his instinct to guide him, if only for a moment.

Draco has been successfully ignoring the physical effects that this closeness with Harry has been having on him for several minutes, but then Harry’s fingers linger at the nape of his neck and the air around them changes, as if to accommodate the weight of another person entering the room. It becomes heavy, charged, and suddenly the only thing Draco can focus on is his rapidly swelling erection pressing against the back of Harry’s thigh, which shifts slightly as if he’s trying to move it. Harry’s breath changes again, too, becoming slow and deliberate, and something warm and liquid pools in Draco’s stomach as he inhales the woodsy scent of his aftershave. 

Harry pulls back slightly to look at him; his lips are parted, his pupils wide in the dimness of the room. Draco’s hand strays to his thigh where it squeezes the meat of Harry’s muscle through the denim of his jeans, as if of its own volition. 

“Draco,” Harry whispers, eyes straying to his mouth.

It’s a want like Firewhiskey roaring through Draco, and like the liquor, it gives him courage to accept what Harry is offering. But he can’t make himself lean forward, is too indecisive to break his word, and so he waits, heart pounding, for Harry to kiss him so that he can respond. The moment stretches out, crystalline and perfect, Harry’s hand in his hair, Draco’s fingers brushing the inside of his thigh, and their breaths mingle for a single second before Harry pulls away.

Harry turns his face away from Draco, who grieves the loss as though someone has died. In profile, Harry’s face is stark. The muscles in his jaw are knotted, his eyebrows drawn down. 

“I’m sorry,” he grits out. “I didn’t mean—”

He levers himself with some difficulty backward onto the cushion next to them, then lifts his leg with one arm off of Draco’s lap and settles himself. Bewildered, Draco wants to object, but his voice is missing when he opens his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again, more resolutely. “I said I wouldn’t do that. Can you get my chair? I need to be alone for a while, I think.”

Wordlessly, Draco pulls it out of his pocket and Unshrinks it. Harry sets the brakes and gets into it. Finally, he meets Draco’s eyes again. “You’ll be here in the morning?”

“Harry.” It’s the only thing Draco can think of to say, and rather helplessly at that. It’s not _I wouldn’t leave you now_ or _Please let me fuck you_ or even _I want you so much I think I’m going mad_ , but only because he doesn’t know how to say those things, which has always been the case when something really matters to him. 

But Harry translates it as an assent or a promise, which it is in a way, and gives a tired nod before heading upstairs for the night.  
*** 

The lovely Eagle owl waits patiently as Draco searches for a treat; they’re out of mice biscuits, but Draco finds some breaded insects and the owl takes them delicately from his palm, crunching on them while looking at him with grave eyes. Her talons dig into the parchment, for a moment, refusing to release it, and then Draco gives a sharp tug and they open. Her gaze is vaguely disapproving, but she hoots softly and flies off. 

Draco looks at the crest on the seal of the envelope. He doesn’t recognise it, but very few people know about his location, so it must be something from Hermione’s office, or perhaps Blaise is changing his seal again; he does that every time he begins a new job.

He peels off the wax and unrolls the parchment, and everything in him stills because the owl wasn’t for him.

It’s really not his fault, he thinks blankly; Harry doesn’t receive owls anymore. They go, he’d once explained, straight to a post box in Diagon Alley that he never opens. The only owls allowed through for him these days are from Hermione, who doesn’t bother sending them. 

And it’s not Harry’s fault, either, he allows as some of his blank shock dwindles into pain at the words on the parchment. In the two days since their near kiss, things have been decidedly strained, though neither of them have addressed the Erumpent in the room. 

Draco has allowed this drawing back from Harry as his due. He’s stuck in an eternal limbo of knowing what he wants but being unable to claim it, this beautiful, burgeoning thing before him that so obviously wants to be claimed. The air around them crackles during treatment every day, the slide of his hand against Harry’s skin feels less and less like that of a therapist and more like a lover’s caress until he sees Harry’s face, carefully neutral and eyes on the ceiling or wall or anywhere that isn’t Draco’s own.

He wants to throw the letter, tear it into a thousand pieces, _Incendio_ it until it’s a pile of burning ash, because it bears the thing the Harry needs that Draco can’t bring himself to give on his own; he’s already denied the possibility to Harry once, and can’t make himself open his fucking mouth and offer what Harry wants to take.

_Dear Mister James,_

_We are delighted to offer you our services. As per your request, your escort has been booked from the hours of six to nine tonight for your entertainment and we feel you’ll be pleased; he meets all of your physical specifications, and he has previously worked with the disabled._

_In response to your query, discretion is assured through the binding contract enclosed, which your escort has already signed. We take the privacy of our clientele very seriously._

_Erik will arrive at six p.m. Should you wish to utilize his company for more than the three hours requested, please deposit additional sums into the vault number given._

_Best Wishes,  
Satisfaction Magic Inc._

At a loss, Draco stares at their breakfasts, resting under a warming stasis charm on the sun-splashed counter. He levitates his own over to himself, then looks down at it as though it’s done something offensive, and stays that way until Harry comes in several minutes later, hair still wet from his bath. He looks briefly in Draco’s direction, then lifts his breakfast from the counter and joins him at the table.

Draco sees the change on his face as he notices the parchment; something flickers there, like fear. “You got an owl?” he asks, voice strained. 

Draco slides it slowly across the table. “You did. I apologise for opening it. I’m not accustomed to you receiving post and I made the assumption it was for me.”

“And you… read it?” Harry asks, as if he doesn’t already know. 

Draco stands, abruptly unable to tolerate his nearness. He walks over to the window and peers out. “I’ve had clients use services like this before,” he says at length, softly. “It’s not unheard of. I don’t judge you for it.”

There’s a trembling sigh behind him; it sounds suspiciously wet. “I need… I can’t ask… I need you to stay.”

“I wasn’t leaving, Harry,” Draco murmurs, tempering the pain in his voice with compassion. “I didn’t leave, did I? I know you have needs. I’m the one who said that we couldn’t, even though—it doesn’t matter. I don’t judge you, I’m not angry. I really do understand.”

“Draco, talk to me,” Harry says, sounding a bit steadier. “I thought. I don’t know, but it sounds like—”

“I’ll clear out for the night,” Draco interrupts. “You were probably going to mention it anyway, right? Actually, if you’re all right, I’ll take the day off.”

“All right,” Harry says quietly.

“Good.” Draco nods decisively. He turns around and uses every last shred of his control to favour Harry with a small smile. “Mother will be pleased; it’s been a long time since I’ve spent my birthday with her.”

Harry’s face whitens and Draco realises that he hadn’t known, not that it matters now. He walks to the Floo and disappears.  
*** 

Draco is not wrong: Narcissa is delighted at his presence. She cancels her luncheon and asks what he would like to do for the day.

All Draco wants, really, is to sleep until the day is over.

But her enthusiasm, seldom shown, is so warming that he makes up something on the spot. “I’d like to take you to see a Muggle film if you’re amenable, Mother.”

She blinks, startled. “A film?”

“Yes. They’re… odd. But I think you may enjoy them.”

A dubious smile slips over her features and she gives his hand a resolute pat. “Then that’s what we’ll do, darling.”

Draco takes her to the theatre around the corner from Harry’s flat. He buys her popcorn and teases her lightly at her reticence to taste it. The film is a historical romance, and every word in it has Draco making emotional references and connections he should not make but after the two hours have passed, Narcissa is so charmed, she even comments on how amazing it is that some of the best inventions have come from non-magical sources. 

Afterward, they visit a café for tea, and it feels very much like the days when Draco was a child when his mother would whisk him off to Paris for a few hours, except that now Draco has to work to keep up his light chatter so that she cannot see how close he is to breaking.

But she does.

After dinner, a complex display of his favourite foods as a child from Piddy, and a sumptuous cake, all but two polite slices destined to go to waste, they retire into Narcissa’s drawing room, where a fire has been lit despite the warmth of the evening. All of the furniture in here is feminine and comfortable, English country, and Draco remembers hiding behind the cushioned sofa he sits on now, when he was five. She pours him a snifter of brandy, then levels him with a significant look. He takes a sip and waits.

“Draco, my love.” Here she pauses, breaking their gaze to look down into the amber liquid, swirling in her glass. “Please don’t misunderstand what I am about to say.”

“Mother—”

“No, darling. I was very pleased for your company today. But your unhappiness is clear, and on your birthday, no less. I must insist you tell me what is troubling you.”

She has used the term _I must insist_ only rarely since Draco was in short pants. There is a steeliness to her blue eyes that accompany this phrase that Draco has only been able to resist once or twice in his life, and he doesn’t even consider doing so now. Haltingly, he explains the situation to her: his attraction to Harry, the professional boundaries he feels compelled to cross, their kiss and subsequent tensions, the feelings he no longer knows how to hide. He explains the concept of emotional transference, and his knowledge that if he allows something to happen, it will have an end date. He doesn’t mention Harry’s rentboy as the reason for his visit, but his mother must have some inclination when he explains that Harry needed his flat for the night to entertain, because her delicate eyebrows rise for the briefest of moments and she takes another long sip.

Draco doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol loosening his tongue or the knife-edge of pain he’s been riding for hours, but it’s the most he’s shared with her since John’s death. When he’s finished speaking, he feels exposed and ridiculous, and downs the rest of his drink in one gulp.

Narcissa is silent for long minutes, contemplating. Then she murmurs, simply, “You love him.”

Draco lowers his head. 

“Your father was the love of my life,” she continues with a gentle sigh. “There were many regrettable things about him, I’m perfectly aware. But ours was a love match, and I have never regretted marrying him. I will never again find someone so well suited to me.”

“I know, Mother.” His feelings about Lucius remain complicated, but he has never not loved his father. He used to spy on his parents dancing without music in the ballroom, Lucius twirling his mother with a soft smile on his face as her robes fanned out like poppies and her face lit up with joy. 

“I wouldn’t have traded my pairing with him even if it had not resulted in you,” she says bluntly. 

Draco isn’t surprised. He nods.

“Even if I had only had him for thirty days, rather than thirty years,” Narcissa adds gently.

Draco’s head comes up.

She is looking at him so kindly, his throat tightens. “We can talk ourselves out of happiness for many reasons; there is always a good one to find, when we look. Timing, ethics, responsibility, fear. What’s more difficult, I think, is allowing ourselves to be happy in the face of those things. Do you know,” she says thoughtfully, “I regret following the Dark Lord with him, of course, as it was ultimately his ruin and very nearly yours. It may have been worse, had you died. But the only real regrets I have were the things I didn’t say to him, those touches I was not allowed to give while he was in Azkaban. I only regret those missed opportunities to bring him joy.”

Draco swallows hard, staring at her. Her eyes go distant for a moment, soft with memory, and then become clear. 

“I was going to offer you your room tonight, but I think it’s more important for you to return to Harry now.” She stands and walks over to him, taking his empty glass and leaning down to kiss his temple in the ghost of a caress. “Happy birthday, Draco.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he responds fervently. He takes hold of her hand as she moves to go and presses it firmly with his own. She smiles, and then slips away.

Draco checks the clock; it’s ten until nine. Hoping that Harry has not paid for extra time, Draco waits fifteen minutes. It will be agonizing to smell another man on him, but he cannot make himself wait longer. He Floos back to Harry’s flat.

Harry is waiting for him in the living room. His face is weary, his eyes red. He startles when Draco steps out of the fireplace and takes a shuddering breath. 

“I thought you might not come back.”

“Harry,” Draco says, more tenderly than he means to.

“I cancelled the appointment. I didn’t want him. I don’t want—anyone. That isn’t you,” he fumbles out on a rush. He wandlessly Summons something from another room and hands it over; it’s clumsily wrapped in red paper, the weight and shape of a book. “Here. I didn’t know—I wish you had told me.”

Draco sets the gift aside and walks up to Harry’s chair, where the other man cranes his neck to see him. He kneels down, slowly, and places the flat of his palms over Harry’s thighs, feeling the warmth of his skin through his trousers. Harry’s eyes flare and he falls silent, perhaps because there’s nothing left to say.

A roaring sound fills Draco, like the rushing of the ocean during the storm, just as tumultuous and frightening, just as magnificent and deadly. He thinks it’s perhaps his heart, finally too full with desire, overflowing. 

“I want you,” Harry whispers.

Draco kisses him.  
*** 

Counterpoint: Harry

Harry wakes up from dreams of her. He doesn’t allow himself to think about it during waking hours, but in the still, small hours of the morning, he rouses himself, sweaty and shivering and tangled, from the image of her, lying so fragile in Ron’s arms.

It was two weeks after he’d woken up that he thought to ask after her. Her death hit him with the force of a Bludger, and he’d immediately and anonymously set up a small trust for her family, to use for their remaining children. He couldn’t bring himself to send flowers. He’d never lost a child before that night.

George is so distracting, all of his talk about Ron and Molly, encouraging the shame that Harry tries so hard not to feel, it is easy to overlook her, standing on the side lines. George isn’t wrong; Harry has removed himself from his own life, he refuses owls from those who love him because he doesn’t _want_ to be reminded that he used to be a better person than he is now. He doesn’t _want_ to remember that he used to be a boy who walked into a black forest toward his own death and came out remarkably well-adjusted from the event. He doesn’t _want_ to acknowledge that his bitterness is misplaced, or face the emotional repercussions of Ron’s tears. Ron, who never cries.

But Harry knows that _he_ killed that girl. He’d charged into Ron with too much force, and in doing so had broken the careful seal of her stasis. Apparently, Hermione told him quietly, she’d bled out so quickly, there was a question about whether she would have lived even if they’d made it to St. Mungo’s. It was a question that would go without an answer forever, and Harry hates himself for asking it. 

That night, Ron had tried to revive her, but she had been so completely gone, so fast, that there was nothing to be done. He had left Susan for the arriving Aurors and gathered Harry, broken and bloodied, up in his arms, carrying him to the nearest point allowing Apparation. 

When Maggie speaks, Harry can barely hear it; his vision tunnels, and for a moment he thinks he’s looking at the girl’s twin. His mouth is too dry, and he doesn’t know how to speak and make himself be heard over the thudding of his heart, but somehow the words come and he talks to her, answers her questions, strokes her new pet and allows them to leave before falling apart.

Draco’s arms are steady around him as they sit, several minutes later, Harry held fast on his lap like a child. His arms and voice make him feel safe, as nothing really does, and his panic attack, so seldom experienced anymore, washes away a tide of dark things that have flooded Harry’s mind. 

He feels small and weak for the display, but Draco’s deep timbre is soothing in his ear, and his fine, pale hair smells of salt and apple shampoo. He doesn’t know how long they sit like that before the quality of the hug changes; Harry gives in to the compulsion to slide his hand through the strands of Draco’s hair, to brush against the long line of his neck. Draco’s breath hitches at this, comes faster, and Harry can feel the growing hardness of his prick pressed against his leg. 

He wants to grind down, wants to push Draco back against the cushions and climb on top of him, but all he can manage is a short squirm of need. He isn’t even hard yet but he thinks he could be if Draco’s hand, which drops to his thigh and tightens, moves higher. He thinks he could grow under Draco’s touch, thinks he could come, that they could come together.

Gone are the days when Harry refuses to masturbate for fear he won’t be able to finish; since kissing Draco, he usually tries during his morning bath and, more often than not, succeeds in proper enough time. It’s been so long, and he doesn’t know how actual sex will go, _can_ go, nothing beyond what the medical texts say is possible, but those explain mechanics, not lust or frustration, which is what wraps around his mind when he strokes himself in the mornings and thinks of Draco.

Draco’s grey eyes are wide when Harry pulls back to look at him; his face is sharp and taut. He glances down at Harry’s mouth, but doesn’t lean in to kiss him and this is when Harry remembers: Draco will leave if Harry asks him for something more.

It seems an impossible feat, but he pulls away and apologises, leaving Draco murmuring his name with regret. Harry sits in his room late into the night, feeling the ache from his phantom limb. His hands are too unsteady to work the spell Draco has taught him, but it never works right for him anyway; it only looks like his own leg under Draco’s wandwork, so he studiously ignores it as he thinks about his options. 

He could easily cross the hall and wake Draco. Draco wants him too; this isn’t one-sided, Harry knows. But the only real thing Harry can do for him is respect his wishes on the matter; the last thing he wants is for his losses and frustration to become a matter of obligation to Draco. The last thing he wants is for Draco to leave.

He could owl Adam; Adam, who sent him letter upon letter after his hospitalization, who claimed to still love him, who claimed that his disability wouldn’t matter. Harry could relieve his frustrations with the other man, soothing the strain he’s put upon his friendship with Draco. But there are too many complications there, and it would be unfair to his ex-boyfriend to use him that way, even if he were available. What he needs is someone anonymous, but who will—

Harry rolls over to his nightstand and opens the drawer. He sifts through the mix of parchment for a few minutes, until he finds the business card that Ron had given him as a joke years ago, after yet another bad breakup. He doesn’t even know if the place is still open; he’s never hired an escort before, less because he was morally against it or because he worked in law enforcement, and more because he wasn’t sure that the interlude would be kept from the front page.

But the paper he holds is rich between his fingers, tastefully embossed with gold lettering, and before he can let himself think about it, Harry writes a letter, asking about their procedures. They send back a list of their openings, a questionnaire about his preferences, and their prices, which are exorbitant and, as such, make Harry slightly more comfortable. He books the soonest appointment, two days hence, and finally goes to bed, falling into a deep, fitful sleep.

Things are worse for the next few days. Draco watches him all of the time, and so Harry is careful, not looking him in the eye because he thinks if he does, he’ll be unable to resist kissing him. 

And then comes the morning when Harry rolls into the kitchen to find a rolled slip of parchment beside Draco, who slides it over as though it’s a weather report, but stands to move away from him. Harry reads the letter, shame swamping him at every understanding, conciliatory word Draco utters, pain under his carefully modulated voice.

Harry wants to say _It’s only you I want_. He wants to say, _I only did this so I won’t drive you away._ But Draco doesn’t let him explain, dropping the fact that it’s his birthday like a grenade before grimacing at him in an agonized facsimile of a smile and Flooing away. 

For an hour, Harry can think of nothing to do as the overwhelming surety that he’s going to vomit floods over him. But he doesn’t, and when the urge finally fades, Harry clears their untouched breakfasts and sends two letters.

He gets a response from the first right away. _As stated in the contract, any cancellations made in the 24 hour period prior to the appointment are subject to loss of half-fee. Please keep us in mind for any future needs; we look forward to providing for you_.

The second response doesn’t come until lunch. 

When Ron steps out of the Floo, dusting off his uniform with clumsy hands, something in Harry’s heart bends and shudders at the sight. Ron looks at him uncertainly, then folds himself into the rich leather, overstuffed chair across from him. 

“Thanks for coming.”

“I was surprised to get your owl,” Ron says frankly, not looking directly at him. 

Harry had been surprised to send it. But for some reason, Ron had been the only one Harry had wanted to talk to. Hermione would be better, he’s sure; she has a natural compassion to her that Ron, after years, still hasn’t developed. Ron’s empathy extends so far as to those situations where the grey is more light than dark—he has trouble wrapping his mind around the idea that good people can make irreparable choices. Excepting himself, of course.

Harry clears his throat. “I thought… I thought you might be able to give me a spot of advice.”

Ron stares at him neutrally for a moment, and then his face breaks open in a tentative smile. “Yeah?” He pauses, looking at Harry hopefully. “I’m on my lunchbreak, though.”

Harry feels a grin flicker at his mouth and leads him to the kitchen.

After Ron’s finished eating, the entire time during which Harry had been talking, he sets down his fork and gives a long, low whistle that does not bode well.

“You really want my advice on this?” he asks incredulously. “’Mione would be better.”

“I know. What do you think?”

“I think you fucked up real well this time.” Ron shrugs. “I think it sounds like Malfoy—and don’t think this is the last you’ll be hearing about _that_ —might be trying to do the right thing with you, and doesn’t know how because he, y’know, wants to… reciprocate.” He tugs at his ear; a tell from when they were younger that Harry shares. “You said you knew you could get the rest of the way without him; you could have let him go and then tried to get him back, later. You _definitely_ shouldn’t have owled that place; stuff like that’s frowned upon in the MLE, for one thing, and was a joke, for another.”

Harry looks at his hands. “You don’t know what it’s like,” Harry says quietly, and for the first time it’s not an accusation, although Ron seems to take it as such. He rocks back in his chair, a hurt look on his face, and Harry scrambles, shaking his head. “I mean, falling in love with someone and—and not knowing if you can…express it,” he elaborates, face flaming. “Feeling like if you force the issue, you’re going to drive away someone you think you might—well, love. Think if it was Hermione.”

The tension in Ron’s face eases; he huffs a little sigh. “I live my _life_ in fear that I’m going to drive her away. Two kids and twenty-five years behind us, and it’s a daily nightmare of mine. It’s all complicated, Harry. If you had loved Adam as much as… Well. If you’d loved him enough, you’d have been that thing he needed, the person who came home to him every night at six. We make compromises, you know? Sounds like Malfoy’s making them. You, too. You’re just doing them in the wrong way.”

“What if he leaves?” Harry asks in a low voice.

“Then he leaves. And then you know. And I’ll bloody owl that place for another appointment for you. Not much is set in stone, you know?”

Harry doesn’t but he nods, anyway. Ron stands; his smile is looser. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“All right.” Harry hesitates. “Tell your mum I said hello.”

Ron’s eyes widen a bit, but he nods. As he’s about to step into the fireplace, Harry calls out his name again, and he turns. 

“Ron.” Harry’s heart is beating too hard, too fast. The sensation of broken glass wants to stop the words from coming out of his throat, but Harry forces them until he’s bleeding from it. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t your fault, that night. The girl. Or…” _Me_ , he adds silently, unable yet to give Ron the absolution he deserves. “It wasn’t. I know that.”

Ron’s wide blue eyes glimmer at him; he pushes off from the mantle, Floo powder falling from his grasp, and leans down, bringing Harry into a tight hug. His voice is thick and clumsy. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry I didn’t—”

“No.” Harry allows the hug but can’t return it, and then he gently pushes Ron away. “You don’t have to—again. I just wanted to say it. So you know I know. Okay?”

“Okay,” he mumbles, dashing a hand over his eyes. He heads away again. “Don’t forget a birthday present. Something nice,” he instructs.

“Thanks.”

After he leaves, Harry ventures out. He heads to a bookstore three blocks down, where Draco had once found an obscure medical title that he refused to buy for himself, declaring that it wasn’t even in his field, and that most of the information in it was obviously outdated. But no one sans Hermione loves learning things as much as Draco does, and Harry passes over an obscene amount of money in exchange for the book. 

The spine is so creased that the covers are falling off, and several of the pages are loose and stained. Harry spends the next few hours carefully restoring the book to its original form, making sure to clear up, but leave intact, the cramped writing in the margins. He wraps it, and waits. He doesn’t even know if Draco will come home, this time.

He finally does, at five past nine, and the significance of the hour isn’t lost on Harry. He has so many things to say, to explain, but again Draco doesn’t let him. He takes Harry’s gift and discards it, then kneels before him like a supplicant awaiting release. His hands are cool and sure on Harry’s thighs.

“I want you,” Harry whispers, although it feels like he’s shouting them, as if the sentiment itself is relieved to finally be spoken, acknowledged. The words are sweet on his tongue.

Draco’s eyes are edged in silver, and his smile is slow, promising, evocative. 

His kiss, even more so.


	6. Promises Unmade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay; I meant to post this a few days ago, but got caught up with real life. But here's some smutty goodness to make it up to you. :)

Despite Draco’s best intentions, they don’t make love right away. With a little effort, they make their way up to Harry’s room, laying down next to one another on the bed. Harry seems quite content to kiss him, lips moving slowly over Draco’s, tongue a smooth slide against his own. He tastes like sweetened coffee and pulls away only to string delicate kisses across Draco’s throat, over his collarbone, biting gently and sucking blood to the surface of his skin. Draco’s breath comes faster; he is hard and ready, but when he moves his hand to Harry’s lap to begin massaging his soft prick, Harry traps his wrist with tight fingers.

“Harry,” Draco whispers in entreaty, all hesitation gone. “Let me.”

Harry’s eyes are dark. “I will,” he says quietly. “I want to.”

“Then why—?” He tries to wriggle his hand out of Harry’s grip.

“I don’t know how it’s going to—be,” Harry says, voice rough with restraint.

Draco swallows the lump rising in his throat at the ineffable sadness in the other man’s tone. He touches Harry’s jaw, which is faintly shadowed with dark bristles. “No one ever does,” he says.

Harry’s eyes flick to him, then away. With a sigh, Draco sits up, smoothing his shirt, and leans against the mound of pillows.

“I can usually come, now,” Harry blurts, reddening a bit. He smirks. “God, I feel like a virgin, talking about this with you. I don’t usually—talk, first.”

Draco smiles nervously, at that. “You can come, now?” he prompts. “I thought you said you could, before.”

“Well, yeah.” Harry struggles up onto an elbow, propping his head up with his fist. His gaze skims Draco’s body, pausing for a long moment at his groin where his erection is tenting the fabric obscenely, then following down the stretch of his legs, and back up. He swallows hard. “It was more difficult, back then. But it, well, it still takes some time. And I don’t always.”

The idea of watching Harry come, seeing his cock thick and hard and ripe for the taking, knowing what his face looks like on the brink of orgasm makes Draco suck in a sharp, provoked breath. He closes his eyes briefly and presses the heel of his hand to his groin. When he opens them, some of Harry’s tension has eased, and he has a faint, amused expression spreading over his face. Draco rolls his eyes, as much at himself as at the other man. But still, he’d posed a serious question, and so Draco forces himself to focus on it.

“So would you not like to—try?” he asks quietly.

Harry shakes his head emphatically, then hesitates. “But I don’t know if it’ll—I wanted to ask you something.”

Something about the gentleness of his voice makes Draco wary. “What?”

“I won’t—I don’t want to—” Harry sighs. “I won’t pry. But I wanted to know if you’ve been with a—been with someone like me, before.”

Slowly, Draco nods. “Yes.”

“Can it be… Good?”

There is nothing to be done but what Draco does, which has always been the way of things for him. He leans forward and captures Harry’s mouth in a kiss, so different from Harry’s tender demonstration before. Harry’s mouth is firm and warm, and he sinks his tongue into the heat of it, licking deep, his fingers threading through Harry’s messy black hair. Harry groans, his hand coming up to grip Draco’s waist, and so Draco pushes him to his back and climbs atop him in one smooth motion until he’s straddling him, rocking his hips against Harry in a prolonged drag.

“Yes,” Draco says, breathless as he pulls away. Harry stares up at him in astonishment, mouth slick and glistening. His hands close automatically on Draco’s hips, guiding him as Draco moves back and forth, small motions designed to do what they accomplish: in a minute, he can feel Harry’s cock thicken beneath him, pressing against the inside of his thigh, harder and fuller with every movement he makes. “We can figure it out, Harry. If you want to.”

Harry huffs a small, aroused laugh. “I do.”

“Where would you like to start?” Draco asks hoarsely.

Harry smiles, slow and curling. His eyes flash green behind his glasses, which have fogged slightly with Draco’s kiss, and he reaches up to pull them off, dropping them on the bedside stand.

“As to that,” he says in a deceptively mild voice, “I’d like to eat you.”

Draco’s hips stutter and still. “You’d like—to—”

“I may not be able to make you come one way, but I sure as hell can make you come another,” Harry mutters with a savage grin. “Is that okay?”

Draco gulps in a breath. “You’ll be able to make me come in lots of ways. What’s more,” he adds, “I’ll make you come, too.”

“We’ll see,” Harry says inscrutably. “Draco.”

“If my jaw falls off doing it,” Draco declares, and Harry laughs, his face lightening.

“Draco,” he says again, in warning. “Stop stalling.”

Vaguely offended, Draco shoots him an irritated look. “I’m allowed to _talk_ —”

“Shut up and take off your trousers.”

Grumbling, Draco climbs off him. He pulls off his clothing in quick, jerky movements, discarding them neatly onto Harry’s side chair and stands before him, feeling strangely vulnerable, hands clasped in front of his nudity. Something hot and sweet flashes over Harry’s expression as he lays there and just _inspects_ him.

“Come here,” he says at length, voice rough with need. “Help me.” He begins pulling off his shirt, clearing his head and tossing it to the floor with one smooth motion, and Draco walks closer, pulling off Harry’s shoe and sock, then climbing up and undoing his flies. He hooks his fingers into the waistbands of Harry’s jeans and pants and slides them down at the same time; Harry lifts his hips weakly, in aid, then lets his arse fall, heavy against the mattress when his clothing clears it. Draco copies Harry and throws them to the floor, heaping them on top of his shirt.

Draco stares at him. He’s seen Harry’s nudity countless times in the last few months and yet— He lets go of a pent-up breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

All of those times he’d looked and not allowed himself to see makes resentment clench, painful, in his midsection. Harry is beautiful. Their training has sculpted his body once more; his shoulders and chest are wide and his stomach flat with a light, defined layer of muscle. A trail of black hair leads down from his belly-button to his groin, where his cock rests, half-hard atop his balls.

Draco smooths his hands up Harry’s thighs, revelling at finally being able to do this the way he’s wanted. The hair there rasps against his palms as he moves up and up, skimming light fingertips over Harry’s balls, cupping and rolling them with one hand. His other hand reaches Harry’s cock and he circles it with a gentle fist and Harry _shudders_ , eyes flaring, holding himself still as he allows Draco to explore. Draco bends down, bowing his neck to get closer. Harry’s erection has flagged slightly since Draco has climbed off him but it soon swells again in his hand, and Draco guides it to his mouth, rubbing the soft, spongy head against his closed lips, inhaling deeply of Harry’s musky, warm scent. Harry draws in a shaking breath and lays a light hand over the back of Draco’s neck, pinching his tendons loosely, leading him away.

“Lay down.”

Shivering inside at the steady command, Draco looks at him blankly. “How do you want—”

“On your back,” Harry tells him gently. “Up against the pillow.”

Looking regretfully at Harry’s erection, Draco leaves off and crawls up, laying back against the pillow. Harry slips a hand between his thighs, inching them open. He scoots downward with his arms, his foot digging into the mattress to help him along slowly, and then clambers between Draco’s thighs, lying on his belly, and releases a long sigh. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he mumbles, taking Draco’s prick in a light hand and stroking the underside with his thumb. “I didn’t think your hair would be so pale everywhere; I love it,” he adds, glinting a charming, lopsided smile upward.

Draco chuckles, surprised. “You love my hair?”

“Draco,” Harry says seriously, “you have _no_ idea.”

He lowers his head and Draco’s heart thunders. It’s the single most erotic thing he’s ever seen in his life; Harry’s focused face, topped by his scar and all of that wild black hair like a storm cloud, eyes glittering as green and hard as emeralds as they stare hungrily at Draco’s cock. And then he opens his mouth, swallows Draco down, and Draco bends into it, back stretched like a bow, crying out with a broken voice. Harry’s mouth is hot and wet, his tongue skilled. He licks complicated patterns against the underside of Draco’s erection, adeptly caressing his foreskin back, circling the root with his hand and giving it a squeeze.

His lips are pink, stretched wide over Draco’s shaft, his tongue constantly in motion. The head of Draco’s cock brushes against the back of Harry’s throat; it’s tight, but then Harry does _something_ and Draco finds he can go farther, so he thrusts his hips upward, seeking more.

Harry makes a rumbling sound like a laugh and does it again, the vibration causing shocks of pleasure to snake up Draco’s prick and down to his balls, which are already drawing close. Harry’s fingers tighten, stroke down in time with his mouth, then up again, squeezing hard at the base. Draco gasps, pleading sounds that he barely understands falling soft and blurry from his throat. Harry moves downward with his tongue, sucking hard, and removes his mouth with a lingering, swirling lick.

Draco writhes helplessly, staring at Harry’s smug expression, then lets his head fall back toward the pillow. “I was close,” he complains, but his heart isn’t in it.

Harry snickers. “I know. Knees up.” 

Draco crooks his knees, digging his heels into the duvet, propping his legs up. Harry mouths at his balls, gently, one after the other, then back again. Draco’s breath comes in harsh wheezes as the soft pressure causes tension to gather at the base of his spine. Harry nuzzles them, inhaling, covering his teeth carefully, tongue dipping down behind them to lick at the soft skin of Draco’s perineum. He lifts his head fractionally. “Yes?”

Draco hesitates. Then says, “ _Yes_ ,” on a trembling sigh.

Harry wiggles further down on his stomach. He loops his hands beneath Draco’s thighs, palming at his arse cheeks, gripping handfuls of muscle to open them.

Harry mutters something quietly, and Draco feels the sudden sharp tingle of a cleaning spell cast over him. Then Harry’s breath is ghosting, warm, over his hole, his fingers dragging lightly on the skin that surrounds it. Draco bucks his hips inelegantly toward the surprising sensation.

When Harry’s mouth first touches him, Draco freezes. His legs are opened wide, arse cheeks separated by Harry’s sure hands, and his lips are slick with moisture, cool and silky. Harry kisses him softly, once, twice, and then licks him, tongue lapping lightly around his rim, teasing the nerve bundles surrounding. Draco gasps at it, the shining sparks of pleasure making him twitch, the strange intimacy of it all forcing tears to his eyes as Harry kisses him again, open-mouthed and wet, and latches his mouth around Draco’s entrance.

Draco’s hand falls to his cock instinctively. He works his foreskin with a light hand, seeking another form of contact to focus on; Harry’s mouth is overwhelming, sending his legs to shaking, making bright stars of light form behind his closed eyelids. And then Harry firms up his tongue, stabs inside of his arse gently at first, and then harder. Draco twists above him and Harry pulls his face away, panting, then comes back with a finger, just one, slipped in barely an inch, massaging around Draco’s rim to open him up. “God, you’re so tight,” he mumbles, voice thick. His finger slips in deeper, but he keeps up that gentle touch inside him, a steady pressure circling his passage.

“ _Please_ ,” Draco begs. It’s the only word he can think of; his world has vanished to the small place where Harry’s finger has breached him, so carefully, slick and sweet and hot.

Another finger joins the first and this time Harry goes further. His fingers slide down to the knuckle with no warning and Draco finds himself simultaneously pulling away and pushing forward somehow, begging for something he barely has a name for. Then Harry’s fingers brush his prostate, and his body lights up like a bloody Christmas tree. Draco arches off the bed, muscles flexing, thighs coming together with a snap around Harry’s head. Harry gives a startled chuckle, reaching up with one hand to pry them back open while his fingers are still working, filthy, inside of Draco. “There, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Draco pants after a moment, remembering that he knows how to speak.

Harry rubs the spot delicately like it’s a new-born kitten, the blunt pads of his fingers stroking wetly on the inward thrust, then falling away as he drags his fingers out and opens them, loosening Draco up more before screwing his fingers back inside with a jolt.

Draco can feel his pulse pounding in his cock, which is so hard it bobs indecently off his stomach, but he can’t bring himself to touch it anymore. His mind is set adrift from Harry’s experienced, questing hand, from the warmth of him lying between Draco’s legs, from the heavy scent of sex filling the room. Harry’s fingers slide inside, easier, making dirty little slurping noises as he twists and pushes them and then, just when Draco’s balls begin to throb, he pulls them out in one quick motion, leaving Draco empty and aching. But he replaces it with his mouth again, tongue spearing into him, lips sucking, teeth scraping the sensitive, wrinkled flesh that has gone pliant under Harry’s knowledgeable touch. Harry gives a muffled, satisfied moan as he licks into him, face buried deep, and he reaches up with one hand to blindly find Draco’s cock, fondling it with ease, forefinger rubbing at the slit. He wraps his whole hand around it, squeezing tight, jerking his hand roughly downward and Draco breaks.

He vaguely hears himself cry out, voice hoarse and loud as he comes. He shoots warm spunk over Harry’s fingers and his own stomach, covering everything with long white stripes as his shaft pulses with pleasure so intense it verges on pain, his vision going grey, his body tense and shaking with the force of his release. Harry strokes him through it, eats him through it, tongue and fingers pressing and focused until all of Draco’s nerve endings are screaming from overload and his body melts back against the mattress like heated syrup.

Finally, Harry’s hand stills and he pulls his mouth away, lips shiny and swollen, and looks up. His eyes are alight with triumph and repressed arousal and Draco, spent though he is, feels a surge of desire like a tidal wave crashing over him, just from that _look_.

“Come up here,” he says, voice ragged. “I want you.”

The light in Harry’s face dims a little. “What if I can’t—”

“I want you, Harry,” Draco says again, steadier this time. “I want you, and you _can_.”

Harry sighs a little. He grips the bedding the levers himself upward; his leg gains some traction and he’s able to use it a bit—good progress, Draco notes distantly—until he’s lying on his side next to Draco, body so close that Draco can feel the heat emanating from his skin.

“I’m not—” Harry swallows. He casts his eyes downward toward his prick, which hangs flaccid. “I’m not hard, anymore. And I think that may be the hottest bloody thing I’ve ever done.”

Draco smiles faintly. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

He gives Harry’s shoulder a shove, letting the other man fall back toward the pillows, and then turns and straddles his chest, arse angled at Harry’s face as he bends over his cock. He feels a rush of embarrassment, absurd considering what Harry had been doing only minutes prior, but it has the effect he was hoping for; Harry groans thickly. “ _Christ, Malfoy_.”

Draco smirks. He leans down to brush his mouth over Harry’s prick, which twitches at his touch. Draco drops soft, questing kisses over the head; he licks at the slit, tonguing around it, and then Harry’s cock jerks, thickens, growing under his ministrations. Draco opens his mouth and takes Harry in, tasting the drop of fluid produced from the tip, sucking gently, then harder, feeling the thick weight of Harry’s cock brush against the back of his throat as he hardens. Harry’s hands come up and grip his arse, pulling his cheeks further apart, fingers tight and brutal on his skin. Draco draws his mouth down, circling his fingers around the base of Harry’s erection, twisting them as he bobs his head, his nose brushing against the delicate skin of Harry’s balls.

“Draco… Please…”

Draco lifts his head, releasing Harry with a soft, wet pop. He gives another teasing lick around the flushed crown and then lifts his head.

“Yes?” he enquires.

“Can we—can I—I want—I think I—,” Harry rambles, fingers still clenched on his arse. Draco wiggles away from his grip, then climbs off of him and turns around.

Harry’s face is tight, his temples glistening with sweat. His chest rises and falls in a quick, disjointed pattern. Draco kisses him, lightly and then deeper, their tongues a battle as he straddles Harry again over his hips. Harry holds out a hand and a small jar of lube flies into it gracefully, but his fingers are clumsy as he unscrews the lid. Draco takes it from him, dipping his fingers in and coating Harry’s cock with the slippery substance in slow strokes. He wipes his hand against the blankets and rises to his knees, scooting up, watching Harry’s face break open with longing as he reaches around and takes hold of Harry’s shaft, lining it up with his hole. Harry reaches forward to help, gentle on Draco’s buttocks as he opens him, but his hands fall away as Draco begins to descend, the head of Harry’s cock breaching his loosened ring of muscles.

It’s painful; as aroused and relaxed as Harry has gotten him, even the tip of Harry’s cock is different than his two expert fingers. But Draco bites his lip and bears down, wriggling his hips until the he’s gotten Harry deeper, and then just like that he sinks all the way down over Harry’s hips, his hole stretching and burning, the stiff heat of Harry’s prick sliding past all resistance, and they groan in unison.

Draco pauses for a moment, Harry’s cock fully seated inside him, and waits to adjust. Harry’s hands come up again to fan out over Draco’s thighs, which are trembling.

“Hurts?” he asks, voice uneven.

“Yeah,” Draco breathes.

“Here, let me—” Harry guides Draco’s hips back a little further; the angle of penetration changes, and with it comes the sharp, startling pleasure of Harry’s cock pressed against his prostate.

Draco exhales loudly. His hands find Harry’s and he links their fingers, moving instinctively, rocking in slow motions to feel that sizzle of nerves flare again and again. He feels so full but that only adds to the sensation and his prick begins to swell again, and he grinds down onto Harry hard.

“Draco—” Harry’s voice is pained. They are palm-to-palm, linked. “Please—move. I need—”

Draco smirks at him, face hot and damp from sweat. “Feels good now.” He does it again.

“ _More_ ,” Harry commands breathlessly.

Draco slowly rises up, allowing Harry’s cock to drag near out of his channel, then falls back into place. Harry’s fingers clench against his; the muscles in his forearms bunch as he moves his arms and allows Draco to fuck himself on Harry’s cock, guiding him back and forth, and Draco sets up a smooth rhythm that lasts for long minutes. Harry jerks his hips upward, forcing himself deeper with a grunt, before losing the energy or resolve to focus or perhaps just his mind because his face is carved in stone, hungry, his eyes glinting at Draco darkly.

Then he lets go of Draco’s hands and grips at his cock, which slaps against the flat of Harry’s belly on each downward thrust. He mumbles something under his breath and his palm is suddenly slick with lubricant as he curls his fist around Draco’s erection. Draco bucks into it, leaning backward, planting his hands on the tops of Harry’s thighs to steady himself as he rides him, cock sliding in and out of his arse, need and confusion tangling up in his stomach. His heart pounds and he sucks in a strangled breath, then lets it go as Harry surprises him with another quick pump upward, which coincides with the pull of his hand around Draco’s cock.

“Draco,” Harry says brokenly, “I think—I think I’m close. I think I can.”

Draco pistons his hips faster—up, down; rough, inelegant movements—as Harry’s fist tightens, jerking his prick in short, quick pulls, twisting his wrist down near the glans. And then Draco is coming again, shooting over Harry’s fingers, long streaks of sticky release coating his chest and stomach. He feels dizzy from the blast of heat racing down his spine, his balls tight against his body, cock throbbing in Harry’s hand. He feels himself contract around Harry’s cock as he continues riding him, harder, too far gone to be fearful about hurting him and then Harry’s shoulders curl up toward him and he cries out with a hoarse, “ _Fuck_!”

Draco feels the warm splash of his climax deep inside, coating the slide of his cock, more intoxicating than the slippery lube which creates such a sweet friction. Harry comes hard, squeezing his eyes shut; he grips handfuls of the duvet underneath him; the cords of his neck stand out. Draco rocks him through it long after his own orgasm has faded, and it must be only moments but it feels like forever, these perfect, shining points of light pulsing between them, before Harry has finished, panting hard and relaxing limply back, sinking into the down of the mattress.

Draco rises, slowly, and disengages Harry’s softening cock from his body. He feels sore and sticky and exhausted and fucking _wonderful_ , and he slants a little grin at Harry as he lifts off of him and lays against his side. Harry’s arm wedges beneath him, wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him close, and Draco snakes a leg between Harry’s thighs.

He pulls a face. “Cast a cleaning charm?”

Harry does, silently waving his free hand at Draco’s body, which tingles again as Harry’s magic blankets him, and then at his own. The come drying on his stomach, the glistening of grease on his cock, and the sopping moisture in his arse disappear, and they rest together for a moment, wrapped around one another.

Harry clears his throat, looking up at his bed hangings. “I think I should have told you…” He hesitates, but then his face becomes resolute, fiercely tender.

Draco’s heartbeat, slowing, begins to climb. “Don’t,” he whispers.

Harry frowns. “But I—”

“Don’t,” Draco says again. He sighs, allowing his hand to wander idly over Harry’s chest, rolling one of his nipples between his thumb and forefinger, dragging his fingers through the sparse hair on his pectorals, lingering over an oval scar above his heart. “We need to talk.”

The light in Harry’s eyes fades a bit. His voice is careful. “About this? About us?”

“About me,” Draco says quietly. He buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck for a moment, inhaling deeply; he smells enticingly of sweat and soap.

Harry’s arm tightens fractionally around his shoulders and then relaxes. “What about you?”

“I…” Draco stops, unsure how to begin. It’s been years, and he’s never spoken about some of it. “I moved to France when I was eighteen,” he says finally. “I was—things were difficult for me after the war in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I’m sure I don’t need to explain it to you,” he adds, hearing Harry’s little noise of assent. “But France was—a new start. Doors weren’t closed to me. I was still considering what to do when I met John.

“I had only been there a month,” Draco explains, voice tight, “when he offered to buy me a drink. He was in a wheelchair, but he was—Merlin, Harry, he was so beautiful, I genuinely wondered if he was part-Veela. He had a sort of cheerfulness to him that I had never encountered before; at least, not directed at me.” He bites his lip, wondering if that was too telling, before continuing.

“He was an American; a half-blood. I thought I’d be more put off by that, but I wasn’t. We just—fit. I don’t know how. “John’s father was a pureblood; there was a curse in his lineage that robbed John of his ability to walk when he turned seventeen. Tumours grew on his spine, leeching strength and motor skills and magic from him. When I found a Healing program in France that would take me despite the Mark, I threw myself into finding ways to help him,” Draco says. “I applied at university, too, as some of the Muggle methods John’s mother had insisted on had been some help and for the next three years I worked to learn everything I could about magical and medical physical disabilities.”

“Why didn’t you specialize in curse-breaking?” Harry asks curiously.

Draco smiles faintly. “I have a lesser degree in that, as well. Generational Magic Curse Studies, to be precise. But what was done was done; he just wanted the ability to—well, to work and fuck and fly and live.”

Harry snorts. He drops a feather-soft kiss onto Draco’s hair and rests his chin against his head.

“We had three good years together,” Draco says abruptly.

“He died?” It’s asked softly, respectfully, and Draco is grateful for it.

“Not then,” Draco admits. “But he became—he changed. When none of the methods worked for long, when he continued to deteriorate, I became his caretaker as well as his lover. And that was good; it was fine. I had gone into my line of study so that I could do that for him. But he began to resent me for it.”

Harry makes a noise like objection, or complaint, then falls silent.

“He couldn’t cope with the idea that he wouldn’t—wouldn’t be able to live the life he wanted again,” Draco says haltingly. “He wouldn’t—we weren’t what we once were. We lasted another year and he began drinking; he hexed me in anger one night, and I left.” Draco swallows thickly.  “He killed himself, that night.”

“God, Draco,” Harry says in a low voice. His arms become tighter again and Draco allows the embrace for a moment, appreciating the comfort although his eyes are dry.

“Harry, things get very—they get very tangled between people who work as closely as we do. When one partner has been responsible for helping the other, like this. This is doubly true because it’s _us_. And I’m not giving up, I’m not resigning my position because we’ve done this. I wanted it—I’ve wanted _you_ for so long and in so many ways it would take years to describe. I’m not saying we can’t do this again. But I won’t be that person for you. I won’t be the person you need to hate again. It’s not sixth year and I—we care about each other,” he admits, faltering. “But I need to be clear; you can’t make any—declarations of—of _intent_ to me. I won’t go through that again. Beyond that, I’m your Healer. Things, the way we feel, a lot of it is based on that. You have to be aware that this isn’t— _can’t be_ forever.”

Harry’s breath is unsteady, but after a long minute, he tucks his hand under Draco’s chin and forces his face up until their eyes lock. Harry’s expression is solemn, strangely grim. “You don’t want my feelings to change if things don’t go the way I hope.”

Draco feels his expression flatten; it’s too blunt, and too true. “No.”

“Do you think they won’t?”

“I don’t know,” Draco tells him honestly. “I think every indicator is good. But I wouldn’t promise you your job back; I wouldn’t even promise you could fly. I don’t know.”

“Mad-Eye had only one leg,” Harry points out. “He was a damn good Auror.”

“Yes. But I wonder who he would have been if he hadn’t lost one. You didn’t know him before.”

Harry nods slowly. “My feelings aren’t going to change about you,” he promises, “If I’m not able to work.”

Draco closes his eyes. It’s so much deeper than that; there are too many avenues down which this whole thing will explode. Harry has only addressed parts of what he’s said, but his declaration echoes inside of Draco anyway, warm and sweet and soft.

“Draco?”

He opens his eyes again; Harry’s expression is tentative.

“Yes?”

“Did you actually—sleep with John?” Harry clears his throat. “Fuck him? You seemed… I don’t know.”

“Yes, I did. We did. Just not—not like this,” Draco admits quietly. “Sex isn’t always defined as—”

“And has there been anyone else since?”

 _Of course, there has_ , Draco wants to tell him. But it’s at once the truth and a lie. After John’s death Draco had tried to find some approximation of that connection; he’d hooked up casually, finding release through anonymous blowjobs and back-alley groping. But it hadn’t been enough. Nothing ever was, until now. That Draco was technically a virgin didn’t seem relevant enough to reveal; he was well-versed in the mechanics, and the whole experience had been rather perfect, in his opinion.

“Not like this,” he says again, barely above a whisper, hoping Harry won’t press.

He doesn’t, and Draco hates the sudden urge to fill the silence with the torrent of excuses and explanations begging to trip off his tongue.

But then Harry is kissing him, lightly, sweetly, lips warm and slick, and Draco gives himself over to it and says nothing more.

***

Training, Draco discovers over the next few weeks, is a lot more fun when you’re sleeping with your client—even if it does cross every professional oath he’s taken.

Harry is insatiable and Draco finds his desire matches; they fuck at least once every day in various ways. Every massage becomes foreplay, nearly every shower and bath is shared. Draco has to _Scourgify_ the hot-tub after each use. Harry is simply _on_ him, _in_ him, so much of the time that Draco starts to feel odd when he’s _not_ being touched by the other man’s mouth or fingers or cock.

Harry teaches Draco how to top him, patiently, voice low and sinful as Draco breaches him with two slicked-up fingers and then three. Draco learns that he prefers it the other way, with Harry filling him up to splitting, but can’t deny the draw of sinking into Harry’s arse when it contracts around him, greedily milking his cock toward impending release; he can’t deny that the look on Harry’s face as Draco pushes inside is the hottest bloody thing he’s ever seen in his life.

Sometimes Harry has trouble finishing but Draco almost always finds a way, as dedicated to Harry’s pleasure as Harry is to his. When it’s like that, Harry subsides into a sort of wistful silence afterward, but refuses to allow Draco to retreat and give him space, holding tight to the him as they laze in bed and don’t talk.

The sex is good for Harry’s progress, too, Draco notes; in very little time, his hips jerk under Draco’s with less difficulty as Draco rides him to completion. He has more and more control over his foot and legs, can press against Draco’s hand longer and harder as they work together.

Now that Draco is no longer fleeing from his own sexual interest, Harry’s flat stops being a trap and becomes a haven. He has to force himself to continue pressuring Harry to go out with him. Harry seems fine either way; they even venture into Diagon Alley on two more occasions, and Harry handles the resulting mob deftly, charmingly, in a way that allows them to scatter without realising they’re being rebuffed of his attention.

When he brings up the idea of Harry contacting his extended support system, he gets a non-committal smile for his efforts. It’s much the same when Draco floats the idea that it may be time to book Doctor Marsh to fit him with a prosthetic; Harry smiles but is strangely reticent. Draco allows him to divert the conversation for a week before he presses to know why.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, Harry,” he insists over the loud sound of Harry’s sullen silence. “Your improvement is far beyond what I’d let myself hope for; you have near-complete control over your left leg—”

“It’s still weak,” Harry mutters.

“—And you can lift your right thigh with few problems. You even did sit-ups yesterday!”

“Four,” he interjects sullenly.

Draco takes a deep breath. “Your legs are only weak and painful in that you haven’t been using them to stand, and so your muscles are uncoordinated. I need to understand why you don’t want me to—”

“Because what if it doesn’t work!” Harry yells. Draco steps back. “What if it doesn’t work, and I can’t go back on duty and I end up—”

He exhales loudly. “I want my life back. I do. I’m trying. But I’m not—ready, yet.”

“I think you are,” Draco counters quietly, challenge clear in his tone. “You’ve been ready since it happened.”

Harry doesn’t respond, but the argument hangs in the air like a bad odour for the next several days. The amount of sex they have increases, as though Harry is trying to make up for his hesitation elsewhere, but he still refuses to broach the subject again. Draco doesn’t bring it up again either; they seem to be living in the crystal bottle of an hourglass, where every grain of sand is a new, beautiful memory—and each of them indicate that time is running out.

About a week before Harry’s birthday, Ron comes through the Floo as they lounge on Harry’s sofa, tangled and undressed down to their boxers, and Draco realises with chagrin that he’d forgotten to close the access from it. Ron stops for a moment, blinking, and Draco braces himself for wrath.

“You’re not as covered as you think,” he says at last to Draco. Draco opens his mouth and then shuts it with a click, scrambling to cover his pants with the blanket draping the sofa as Harry starts to laugh.

Draco glares at both of them. “What are you doing here?”

Ron gives a one-shouldered shrug. He tugs on his ear, much like Harry does when he’s nervous. “Mum wants to see you.”

“ _Us_?” Draco blurts. He can’t imagine a worse idea than meeting the Weasley matriarch while looking freshly fucked by Harry.

Ron snorts. “You’re welcome, if you want, but no—Harry.”

Harry worries his lip between his teeth for a moment and Draco thinks he’s going to refuse. They’ve stopped in to see George each time they’ve gone into Diagon Alley, but Harry hasn’t brought up the topic of visiting the rest of his chosen family yet and Draco hasn’t wanted to push; it’s been enough that he’s been seeing Ron and Hermione more often.

“Why now?” Harry asks at length. Ron shrugs again.

“S’pose it could be that you sent her that owl,” he says.

Draco tries to control his expression; Harry hadn’t even mentioned doing that.

“Mostly I think she’s mad that you’ve seen George and haven’t been to the Burrow yet. She’s pretty upset about it, Harry, although she’s been pretending not to be.”

Harry casts Draco an uncertain look, as though Draco can _Accio_ the answer for him from the next room.

“I—I wanted to wait until…” Harry sags slightly, then capitulates. “All right.”

“ _Now_?” Ron looks poleaxed that Harry has agreed.

Harry wavers, then nods decisively. “Yeah.”

He slants another glance at Draco, who is trying to subtly untangle himself from Harry’s arms—it’s just too weird with Ron standing there, watching them. “Do you want to come?”

“ _No_ ,” Draco says emphatically, making Ron snicker. He puts a conciliatory hand on Harry’s forearm when he frowns. “Another time. I have some research I’ve been putting off; a few errands, as well. Will you be all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says again, sounding more confident than he looks. He Summons his clothing from the floor and dresses with minimal fuss, only pausing to lean on Draco as he wiggles to pull his trousers up over his arse. He looks at his chair before stopping. “How will we—get there?”

Ron’s brows furrow. “The Floo.”

Harry grimaces; there’s a flash of anger in his expression that he cleanly masks, gone like a dust mote in a shaft of sunlight. His voice is almost too even. “My chair can’t.”

“Oh.” Ron looks embarrassed. “I could Shrink it, yeah? That’s what Malfoy does when you two Apparate?”

“I’ll have to Apparate there. The Floo won’t take two at once. Draco, could you—” Harry pauses significantly.

“Of course,” Draco says smoothly. He stands and retrieves his clothing, getting dressed, and Shrinks down the chair, pocketing it, then lifts Harry with a low grunt. “You’ll have to do it; I’ve never been there before. I don’t know its location or features to focus on.”

It’s the first time he’s given control of Apparition to Harry and feels only the vague flutter of nerves regarding the possibility of Splinching. Harry’s magic hums around him all the time now, like the buzz of electricity in a frequency higher than most people can hear.

“I can do it,” Ron offers hesitantly, and Harry shakes his head, too fast.

“No. Draco will.” He throws Ron a convincing smile. “See you there.”

Ron gives him a disappointed look and heads back to the Floo, disappearing in a flare of green.

“Ready?” Harry’s eyes catch his, just for a moment. “Is this okay? I shouldn’t have assumed—but Ron was here, and—”

Draco glares at him half-heartedly. “Well, you’re not getting any lighter as we stand here,” he says gruffly, and Harry’s face relaxes.

“Okay. Hold on.”

There’s an unpleasant twist in Draco’s midsection as the world spins around him, and then they are deposited outside a charmingly strange, climbing house, narrow and several stories high, that looks like it might topple with a hard breeze but for its sturdiness and the obvious magic surrounding it. He reaches into his pocket with some difficulty and pulls Harry’s chair, Unshrinking it, then eases Harry down with a sigh of relief.

“You’ll be okay?”

Harry nods soberly. “I hope so. Molly can be—” He glances at the house. “Well, I guess we’ll see.”

“You didn’t tell me you wrote to her,” Draco blurts, then cringes. Really, it’s none of his business.

But Harry flushes slightly and gives him a hooded look. “I thought it might be time,” he says.

Draco nods. It looks as though Harry wants to kiss him, but he takes a small step back. “Send someone through if you need me to come get you, all right?”

Harry stares at him. “All right.”

Draco gives him a tentative smile and Disapparates.  He stands for a moment in Harry’s sitting room, and then gets to work.

He spends the morning researching disabled Aurors; obviously, because of the high degree of risk entailing the job, there are many of them. Alastor Moody is probably the most prominent of the bunch, and so Draco begins there and quickly begins to understand what Harry’s concerns are regarding a standard prosthetic, as well as his fears about getting a magical one.

Apparently, it took Moody years after the loss of his leg to ride a broom properly again, and even then there were multiple accounts of his balance causing problems. That his death occurred while on a broom (in an escape designed to protect Harry, no less) seems even more significant. With his old-fashioned wooden leg, he had no trouble Apparating, and was considered one of the most extraordinary duellists of his time, but had trouble with movement and—when unable to get his combatants into a Body Bind—occasionally couldn’t catch them when they used the easiest means of getting away: running.

Draco looks at the paperwork thoughtfully, then considers. Harry is aware that the magical prosthetics make certain forms of travel difficult (although he would almost certainly be able to ride a broom eventually), which would create a conflict for an Auror in fieldwork. A Muggle prosthetic made of polyurethane would likely have the same problems, with the added disadvantage of making him more vulnerable in a fight, as Muggle items are harder to charm with protective spells.

Draco debates for a while, then walks over to the Floo and makes a firecall. Doctor Marsh answers immediately.

***

Counterpoint: Harry

Harry imagined Draco in his bed dozen times over the course of their history together as teenagers. It was usually a fleeting thought, followed immediately by disgust or shame as he followed the other boy through the darkened halls of Hogwarts or stared at his footprints on the Marauder’s Map. He remembers the feel of Malfoy’s chest pressed tightly against his back as they flew away from the thick, shimmery heat of Fiendfyre, remembers the way his arms wound around his waist, his long fingers digging into Harry’s ribs. He remembers—even then, through the bleak fear chasing him—a split second of curiosity.

And his mind has been haunted since Draco moved in. His embarrassing teenage fantasies don’t hold a candle to the explicit daydreams he has now when he looks at the other man, a dozen times a _day_ if not more.

But not once—not as a student, and not as an adult—did Harry ever think Draco would be so sweetly inexperienced as to blush at the idea of Harry tasting him. The way he moves his hands over Harry’s body, the way he kisses, deep and filthy, the way his eyes share an unspeakable tension, all speak to a man who knows what he wants.

And yet.

As Draco stands before him, all of his beautiful, pale skin on display, his face as open as a flower seeking the sun, Harry is abruptly certain that Draco has never done the things they are about to do. He’s confident that Draco has touched and has been touched, has been in love, has given and received sexual satisfaction, but a rise of tenderness sweeps through him—the likes of which he hasn’t felt since he was eighteen and parting Ginny’s thighs for the first time—at the awareness that, through some stroke of strange luck, Draco is giving his virginity over to Harry with no qualm or pretence.

Harry finds himself filled with terror that his dysfunctional body will betray him, and so he makes it as good as he can, drawing it out, licking and fingering into Draco’s body with a hum of pleasure that seeps into his bones if not his cock. When Draco comes above him, gasping and startled, Harry’s heart thuds with a love so deep that he’s amazed he hasn’t drowned in it already—or maybe that’s what he’s doing now, because he can’t breathe for it.

There are a few tense moments later (the pain on Draco’s face as he slowly seats himself on Harry’s leaking erection, the throb in Harry’s shaft that makes him worried he won’t be able to come, even as he gets close), but Draco’s face is dark with desire. His shock of white-blond hair clings to his temples and forehead, which are beaded with sweat. And his hands are laced with Harry’s, using him for balance and guidance as he rocks his way to completion and then shudders out his name when he comes again, warm and erotic, all over Harry’s stomach, leading Harry so erringly into his own orgasm, his arse tight and moving around Harry’s prick.

Harry wants to say, afterward—he tries to say—he should have said before—but Draco won’t let him, instead telling a story that is at once too descriptive and too vague, giving reasons to not commit his heart as though he hasn’t just done so, so obviously, with his body. And Harry lets him.

Draco thinks that Harry’s feelings are resultant from their working relationship but has barred Harry from denying it—or, in fact, talking about the way he feels, at all. Harry does feel gratitude, yes, but mostly a simple, surprising elegance with which they relate to each other; he’s not only in love with Draco because he’s helped him. He’s sure of that much.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask the questions he so desperately wants to know or say the things he so desperately wants to say. Because what if Draco is right? Harry has pushed away everyone dear to him because of his injury, and although he can see things more clearly now, it’s still as if he’s looking through a cloud of smog that dirties up his vision. His secrets and shame press upon him like a weight he will never be rid of, and the least he can do is respect the wishes of the one person who never demands to know them.

Later, Harry suspects that sex is actually aiding his progress, if for no other reason than it adds incentive. Before his injury, he enjoyed bouts of wildly inventive sex that required plenty of flexibility, and it grates on his nerves that he can’t have that with Draco now. So, hiding it between the broad scope of what he wants for his recovery, he makes an small, unspoken goal for himself: be able to bend Draco over the nearest surface and fuck him stupid. '

He’s fairly certain that Draco doesn’t know he has this in mind every time he makes Harry lift the torturous weights on his legs or massages the tight tendons covering his hips, although somehow these activities always lead to more sex. But the image does spur him on enough that, in a matter of weeks, Harry can participate more when they fuck; his can move his hips with less difficulty and pain and drive into the other man intermittently, seeking his own pleasure with a more active eye.

And yet, for all of their newfound intimacy, there is something dark and uncertain between them; an opaque screen that obscures Harry’s understanding. He can’t figure out whether it’s Draco’s history or Harry’s subtle, simmering resentment at having to hide his emotions, but it’s made worse when Draco begins to urge him to meet with Doctor Marsh to discuss fitting him with the prosthetic.

He can’t be sure if it’s true, but Harry knows that once he can walk, Draco will have little excuse to stay. He thinks Draco loves him. He can taste the words, unspoken, in each of Draco’s kisses, can feel them as Draco murmurs nonsensical words of delight into the skin at the crook of his neck. But the recovery that Harry has so despaired over, so hoped for, feels like it could be the catalyst for taking Draco away from him.

The distance between them feels like it grows, and so Harry doubles down. He’s afraid he’s demanding more than Draco wants to give, but Draco’s expression is lit up with wonder every time Harry touches him, licks him, slips inside of him.

Soon, Draco sports marks on his near-pristine body that make Harry swell with possessive pride. Love bites bloom, violet and blurry, at his throat; bruises shaped like fingertips dapple his hips and arse cheeks like a child’s painting; the inside of his thighs are pink from whisker-burn. When Harry asks if he wants to be healed of it, Draco simply shakes his head as a flush climbs up his cheeks.

They exist, for now, in a stasis of their own making, and Harry fears the day that is hurtling toward them when everything will have to change, for good or ill.

***

The letter is woefully incomplete, but Harry has never claimed to know the right words. However, Draco is right in his gentle admonitions that the people who love him deserve responses even if Harry can’t bring himself to reciprocate the affection they offer yet, and so one morning while he’s picking up something, Harry puts his quill to parchment.

_Dear Molly and Arthur,_

_I’m so sorry I’ve been so absent. I know you both deserve more than that from me._

_Things have been much better; Draco and I have been working on an intensive program and there’s been a lot of progress so far._

_I hope you’re both well, and wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you. I’ll come see you when I can, if that’s still okay._

_Love, Harry._

He stares at the note for a few moments before sealing it and passing it over to the owl. His words barely cover one quarter of the page. But he does not know how to confide in them anymore. The warm acceptance of their love has been something he’s clung to since the earliest trappings of his desolate childhood released him, and he’s afraid that returning to their world—like this—will deface so many of the things he holds dear.

When Ron walks out of his Floo a few days later, Harry is more distracted by Draco, flushed and breathing hard and nearly naked on his lap, than he is cogent of why Ron might be coming by, and yet he finds himself so unsurprised by Molly’s summons that he wonders if he knew this would happen the moment he wrote the note.

The Burrow is as lovely as it’s ever been; the lush, boisterous landscape, the stacked, over-reaching house. He rolls up the dirt drive slowly. He’d lived here for the year after the war, when things were so tangled inside of him, and it had been a balm to his battered soul at the time; the peacefulness and quiet love, the warmth and noisy activity, the smells of grass and Molly’s cooking.

He lets it soak in to him now, even as the door swings open and he finds himself looking at Molly.

She stares at him for a minute.

Harry stares back.

“Well?” she finally demands, stepping inside, a smile creasing her face. “Are you going to come in?”

Harry self-consciously rolls past her to the kitchen, which is filled with the mouth-watering scent of roast-beef and potatoes and freshly-baked bread. There are dishes being washed at the sink, clinking delicately against each other in the water as they levitate to get scrubbed by Molly’s rags. He comes up to the table, sets his brake, and looks around.

“Where’s Ron?”

Molly takes a seat across from him. “He’s upstairs. I wanted to speak with you.”

Harry tries not to cringe. “Molly, I—”

“Right, then,” she interrupts. She’s knotting her apron between her fists, and she looks down at the table. “I’m going to say this once, and then I’ll let you have your say, and then we can be done with it.”

Harry’s eyes and throat suddenly ache, but she takes a deep breath. “I am horrified— _horrified_ , young man—” and this term almost makes Harry smile through his fear, “—That you would _ever_ ask if it was still ‘okay’ to come see us.” Her chin wobbles a bit as she looks up, but her eyes are steely and determined and Harry suddenly sees a flash the mother who slayed Bellatrix Lestrange to protect her only daughter as the ground cracked beneath their feet.

“Molly—”

“I’m not finished. We have tried to respect your wishes to be alone right now. I’m perfectly well-aware that you’ve been having my owls redirected, but Harry, has it not once occurred to you that Arthur and I know where you live? That we could have come by at any time to see you if we had felt you were ready?”

Harry shakes his head; swallows.

“Do you remember when Charlie travelled to South America?” At Harry’s nod, she gives an exasperated huff. “Three years, he was gone! A mother doesn’t stop loving her children because they aren’t around her, do you understand me?” she says fiercely. “You will _always_ be welcome here; you will _never_ have to question the Burrow as your home.”

Harry is flummoxed; he is so moved, he doesn’t know if he can speak. The taste of salt fills the back of his throat as his eyes swell against the tears trying to fall.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“You can apologise another time,” she returns, more comfortably. “You told us you needed time and we took you at your word, despite the reports we got from Ron and Hermione. If I had felt it truly necessary, I would have found a way; perhaps I should have, maybe that was my failing—”

“No!” Harry says loudly. “No, please don’t think that, no. I’m just not—I haven’t been in a place where I can—it’s been too hard to—” He gives a hard sigh and cards a hand through his hair. “I’m still not ready, not really. I know it’s unfair. You—what you are to me—I can’t… I’m not in place where I know how to be _kind_ ,” Harry fumbles, searching for the right way to tell her, “To those who are kind to me. And I couldn’t stand hurting you. I’ve hurt too many people already.”

“Oh, Harry,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “I think you and Arthur are quite alike, you know. He was the one who convinced me to let you get through this, as you said you needed, without us. He has that gentleness I’ve always lacked. I think you do too. You might even know it if you’d ever been allowed to foster it, growing up.”

“Please don’t cry,” he says wretchedly, when she starts to. She sniffs and wipes her eyes on her apron.

“You can’t tell me not to,” she rebuts on a soft sob, tears tracking down her cheeks, and Harry wants to die from it.

His hands seek hers, covering them. After a moment she clings to him tightly.

“You need more time?”

“I think so,” he says slowly, looking into her watery eyes and trying to say everything that needs to be said. She seems to understand; she bites her lip. “But I think—I think I’m getting better. I want to get better. If that helps.”

She gets up from her seat and comes to stand before him. He has never known her to be a timid woman, so the subdued tone in her voice breaks his heart. “May I—may I hug you?”

“Molly,” he returns quietly, truthfully, “I’m horrified that I’ve _ever_ made you feel like you have to ask.”

Her arms close around him and Harry lets himself be held, much in the way she did after Sirius died, when she was the sole source of comfort in his whole world. She smells like vanilla and nutmeg, and her fading, flaming hair brushes his cheek, soft, as she pulls him in closer, letting him nestle against her as though he were a child.

Afterward, he stays for lunch, talking of mundane things with Ron and George and Hermione, discussing Arthur’s new obsession with the unmoving quality of Muggle artwork. Molly doesn’t talk much, but she looks at him often, with a blend of relief and hope, and it’s all okay. He promises to allow their letters through and begin writing more frequently, especially as he’s not ready to visit regularly yet.

George helps him home—Harry doesn’t miss the confused hurt flickering over Ron’s face when he doesn’t ask him—and upon George’s departure, Harry notices something strange about his flat, a tension in the air, like a bell held taut on a string.

He rolls into his living room and sees Draco sitting on the sofa, dressed in pressed grey slacks and a white button-down shirt, one leg draped elegantly over the other. He moves forward quickly with the sudden urge to _take_ him—prehistoric nonsense that fills his rushing blood like the beat of a drum anyway because Draco is _his_ and Harry _wants_ him and he’s so goddamn beautiful sitting in Harry’s house like he _belongs there_ —when Draco suddenly unfolds himself and stands.

Harry halts in confusion, and follows Draco’s eyes.

A man he doesn’t recognise is standing up from Harry’s squashy leather chair opposite the sofa. He’s got dark brown hair threaded liberally with grey; his face is quite lined, but his blue eyes twinkle and his thick moustache quivers with his smile, and Harry knows.

“Harry,” Draco says gently and damn him for being gentle, Harry thinks; damn him for all of it, “I’d like you to meet Doctor Marsh.”


	7. Missing Pieces

Harry has barely looked at him since he arrived home.

Draco sits in their therapy room and watches Harry obligingly answer all of Doctor Marsh’s questions. He has what Draco now recognises as his crowd smile painted across his face; affable, kind, vaguely distant. His eyes, though…

When he’d first come into the room, there had been such _heat_ in them that Draco had felt his body respond, reaching out to the other man without moving before he remembered there was someone else in their presence. And then Harry had noticed Doctor Marsh, and his next glance to Draco glittered hard with anger and betrayal, narrow behind his glasses.

Draco knew he wasn’t going to be happy about it, but he hadn’t expected that.

Doctor Marsh rotates the joint of Harry’s hip a little harder. “And this is comfortable?” he asks, his Scottish burr thick.

Harry winces, staring up at the ceiling. “Not comfortable. But not painful.”

“Draco said that you have more motor control over your lower body now?” He places Harry’s leg flat against the table. “Can you demonstrate? Whatever is easiest to do.” 

Harry sighs but humours him. The toes of his left foot wiggle and he turns his ankle.

“Very good.” Doctor Marsh slants Draco a pleased smile. “And what would you consider the most difficult movement you can make?”

Harry pauses. “Lifting weights with my legs, I think.”

“Hm.” Doctor Marsh lifts Harry’s foot and inclines it inward, bending his knee. “Can you push back?” Harry does. He’s much, much better at it than he was a few months ago; Draco can see Doctor Marsh expending no little effort to keep Harry’s foot in place. His cheerful face looks down approvingly. “I’m going to let go of your leg in this position. Can you lower it slowly?”

He follows through without waiting for an answer, and Harry’s face goes tight with the strain as he tries to keep his leg lifted in place. It drops a little, but with effort he lifts it back up to the original position and starts to lower it downward, breathing hard. There are only a few inches between the mat of the table and his calf when he loses the battle and his leg drops with a muffled thud.

Draco wants to go over to him; wants to lend some support. Hold his hand, maybe. But with Doctor Marsh watching, it feels more complicated than it would for any other patient. And he’s not sure Harry would welcome his support, anyway.

Doctor Marsh starts investigating the site of Harry’s amputation. His fingers traverse over the skin, tightly stretched over the stump of bone, prodding at Harry none-too-gently. Harry’s face is implacable, a mask; he doesn’t even look up to watch the doctor. The doctor lifts his leg and examines it, then pulls his wand and skims it over the scar of knitted flesh. His wand emits a bright, healthy yellow, like a puff of smoke, and Draco sags with relief.

“Wonderful!” Doctor Marsh crows.

“What?” Harry sounds distant, disinterested. It’s not uncommon; he hates it when Draco massages around his stump. He even tries to cover it up in bed. The only time he acts like it’s tolerable is when Draco is performing the mirroring spell to ease his phantom limb pain.

The doctor extends a hand to help him up. Harry takes it automatically, and is pulled to a sit. He bends his knee and uses his hand to pull his foot inward to get into a more comfortable position.

Doctor Marsh takes a seat across from him in the EMS chair. “I was more than willing to work with you months ago, but I’m glad we waited,” he says comfortably. “Your muscle tone and control are far better than I was expecting, and I think the physical therapy you’ll require to learn to walk on the prosthetic will be minimal.”

“That’s it?” Harry asks, disbelief colouring his tone. “I just—get a new leg?”

Doctor Marsh laughs. “I wish it were so simple. I’ll be designing your leg directly from your magical signature, so it’ll take me the next week or so. In the meantime, you need to learn to bear some weight on your remaining foot,” he explains. “I don’t expect you to be able to go running, or even to stand without the aid of bars, but—well, Draco can walk you through it. No pun intended,” he adds, moustache quivering as though the bad joke was, indeed, on purpose. His face grows more serious, and kind. “Do you have any questions?”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it. He tilts his head. “Draco said it will feel like a real foot?”

“Mmm. Mostly. It’s a medical charm of my own making, and relatively new. People have slightly different responses to it, but yes, the general consensus is that it feels much like your own leg did.” He opens his hands wide. “The most common complaints are pain at the site of the amputation and a weight, either heavier or lighter, that can be difficult to adjust to. It may affect your balance a bit.”

“And there’s something about not using the Floo?” Harry ventures after the doctor stops talking.

“No, no, I’ve fixed that. The only real problem with travel is Apparition.” He looks a little chagrined. “I’m still fiddling with it. We’re able to Apparate with items, you see, with objects, so in theory you should be able to Apparate with the prosthetic, but something about the way the charm interacts with your body and blood… There’s not a—desirable outcome. It’s actually the most dangerous aspect about the charm.”

“What happens?” Draco interjects, because Harry looks like he wants to know but doesn’t want to ask.

“When you put it on,” the doctor explains, looking at Harry, “It’ll fuse with your tissue and connect to your bone. Apparition can—well, it can Splinch the bones it’s connected to. I believe it has something to do with the bodily displacement we undergo when we Apparate. When you travel through the Floo Network, you’re actually going through a series of interconnected charms, and your body isn’t affected directly at all.”

“Draco said—” Harry clears his throat, here. His face is impassive, but his eyes finally flick over to where Draco sits, then away. “There are some restrictions on it? Bathing and such?”

“Well, you should be able to shower with it on,” Doctor Marsh says. “Soaking it would not be ideal; some of the charms I use in it tend to dissipate faster in water, although I haven’t had any patients tell me that the leg has dissolved. Rain isn’t a problem. They’re made to last.” He pauses thoughtfully. “It should come off when you sleep, or if you plan to be sitting for an extended period of time, simply because it’s designed to aid in movement, and may become uncomfortable after a while when you’re inactive.”

“Will I be able to fly with it on?” Harry asks. His voice is abruptly raspy, and Draco’s heart aches.

Doctor Marsh nods. “It may take a bit for you to get back to where you were, but I don’t anticipate any problems in that area. You’re quite the flyer, I read.”

Harry swallows. “I—yes.”

“Good.” The doctor slaps his hands over his thighs and stands. He heads back over to where Harry sits and presses his wand to the pulse point in his throat. The light that pours into the wand is rich and colourful and bright. Harry tilts his head to allow better access as Doctor Marsh copies his signature, then the doctor steps back with a smile. “I suggest you begin weight-bearing exercises immediately. Tonight. Be careful not to injure yourself by pushing too hard,” he says to Harry, then glances at Draco. “Do you think he’ll be able to stand with the aid of the bars for thirty seconds or more by the time I return in a week?”

Draco doesn’t hesitate before nodding. It’ll be a tight, rigorous schedule because they haven’t even begun weight-bearing yet, but he’s confident in Harry’s abilities. To say nothing of his stubbornness. “Yes. He can get there.”

“Glad to hear it. Well, then, gentlemen, I’ll be off. I can show myself out.” He holds out his hand to Harry and gives him a brief shake. “It was very nice to meet you at last.”

“And you,” Harry says softly. When he leaves, they are silent for a several minutes. Draco has the inane urge to fiddle with his wand, but keeps his hands clasped in his lap, plucking up the courage to say something.

“So how angry with me are you?” he finally asks, talking to his knees.

There’s another moment of silence, and then Harry clicks his tongue. “Angry.”

“Do you want to hex me?” Draco asks.

Harry makes a muffled, frustrated sound. “I want to do a lot of things to you.”

Snorting, Draco looks up. Harry is staring at him with a hard, burning look on his face, as though Draco is a riddle that he can’t quite figure out. “You could do them one by one,” he offers.

Harry’s mouth thins. “No. I can’t.”

Swallowing hard, Draco stands. He’s been working with Harry for long enough now that it’s easy to forget that this relationship, these blurred lines, are such new territory. “Right. Well. We should get you in shape for them, I suppose.”

“Now?”

“Now.” Draco sighs and stands up, heading over to him. He casts a strong cushioning charm around them. “I’ve been trying to pace you, but we need to move things a bit quicker, I suppose. He wants you on your feet in a week.”

“Foot.”

“Not after next week,” Draco reminds him, slipping an arm under Harry’s shoulders. His hand goes to Harry’s armpit for better leverage, and Harry looks at him in surprise.

“You’re not going to carry me there?” He blinks several times in succession as Draco tries to situate him better. “Or levitate me?”

“The first few times are best with someone to prop you up,” Draco says, gritting his teeth a bit as he tugs Harry into a standing position. Harry’s arm flails and then closes over his shoulder, holding to him tight. Draco’s height helps him in this instance; he tilts his weight to the side so that Harry is leaning heavily against him, toes dragging on the floor. “Feel the floor?”

“Yeah,” Harry says breathlessly, still sounding surprised at the speed with which it’s all moving. He jerks his foot.

“All right. I’m going to lower you down slowly, and I want you to make sure your foot feels flat,” he instructs as he bends his body the other way. “You can use the table to prop yourself on the other side.”

Harry hisses after a moment. “ _Goddamn_ it.”

“What?”

“It fucking _hurts_.”

Draco turns his head to look at the other man, easier now that Harry is partially supporting his own weight. “Does it really?”

Harry’s countenance darkens. “You think this is funny?” he growls, and Draco realises he’s smiling.

He laughs. “No, I think it’s fantastic. Pain is good, Harry. Pain means your nerves are doing what they’re supposed to. What does it feel like?”

“Er, hot needles, maybe. Like when your foot goes to sleep, only worse,” he tells Draco slowly, breathless again. His hand grips the table top tightly enough to make his knuckles turn white, and Draco his fairly sure he’ll have bruises on his shoulder in the morning, but they won’t be the first Harry has given him, so.

“Brilliant,” Draco says with satisfaction. He lowers him down a little more; releases some of the tension in his arm.

Harry groans. “No—really. Stop. Wait.”

Draco lifts him a bit again. “It’s going to hurt, Harry.”

“I know. I just—wait for a second.”

Draco waits until Harry’s breathing as slowed. He wants to kiss him, but restrains himself. And then Harry takes a deep breath.

“Again,” he says, voice rough. “Do it.”

Draco does.

***

For the first time in weeks, they don’t fuck before sleeping. They’re both tired from training, which Harry had insisted on twice more than Draco thought prudent and had lengthened each round. He was able to stand for nearly ten seconds with proper support, already.

Between food and physical therapy, neither of them has stopped since Doctor Marsh departed, and though Draco regrets Harry’s lack of overtures, he hopes they’re coming solely from physical exhaustion rather than Harry’s feelings toward Draco contacting the doctor in the first place.

They share a quick, platonic shower and fall asleep next to each other.

Draco doesn’t know the hour when he wakes up; he only knows that he was sleeping and that now something is wrong. His eyes snap open with perfect clarity and he rolls over to find Harry, face twisted up with pain, fully awake. He grabs his wand and spells the lights on.

“What is it?” He climbs to his knees.

Harry’s jaw clenches. His face is slick with sweat. “My leg. It—hurts.”

“Oh, Merlin. Calf or thigh?” Draco asks urgently.

“Both,” Harry groans raggedly, fingers clawing at his legs. “My thigh is worse.”

Draco moves down the bed to begin a deep tissue massage into the meat of Harry’s left thigh. A rubdown. He’d forgotten a fucking rubdown after Harry’s first weight-bearing exercises. He’s utterly horrified at himself.

The muscles under his hands are bunched up, tightly knotted with cramps and he finds them swiftly, unerringly, fingers pressing hard to loosen them before he moves onto another spot. Harry groans with pain and relief and after several minutes the aberrant lumps of muscle on Harry’s leg have disappeared, tension slowly draining away. Draco keeps working, gentler now, guiding Harry onto his stomach so he can work on his glutes, stroking deep into every muscle that is used in standing. He rolls Harry over again and presses his thumb into the long line of the anterior tibial muscle along his shin, then begins a foot massage. Harry’s toes are unnaturally curled, so he focuses on the top of Harry’s arch, the balls of his feet, until his toes unbend and relax into place.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs when Harry is breathing almost normally again. Draco feels suffused with shame that he’d not only let Harry dictate his own treatment against his better judgment, but that he’d forgotten something so elementary, so necessary, because of his fatigue and confusion over the state of their relationship. “I should have done this immediately when we were finished for the night. I can’t believe I didn’t.”

Harry gives a little sigh. He shifts his foot in Draco’s lap. “It’s all right.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Draco asks softly.

“You never sleep,” Harry says simply. When Draco opens his mouth to object, Harry shakes his head slightly, still resting against his pillow. “You don’t. When you were in the room across the hall, I’d get up and see your light shining under the door; I could hear you moving around at four in the morning. And when you’re next to me…” He sighs again. “You have nightmares.”

Melancholy settles in Draco’s stomach. “I wasn’t aware I was keeping you awake.”

“You don’t.” Harry shrugs a little. “I touch you and they ease off. But you were—relaxed, tonight. Calm. I didn’t want to—”

Quick as a blow from his father’s free hand, Draco’s sadness turns to fury. “You can’t _do_ that, Harry,” he hisses out, pinching Harry’s Achilles tendon hard. Harry sucks in a breath and Draco moves his fingers up further, draping Harry’s ankle over one forearm as he begins again on Harry’s calf. “I’m your therapist. You can’t just make these decisions not to inform me when you’re in pain because we’re fucking.”

There’s a long silence. Harry’s face hardens. “Like the decision you made to call Doctor Marsh because you knew how ready I was even though I said I wasn’t?” he asks coolly.

Draco’s hands falter, resume. “It’s different. I’m your physiotherapist; I’m supposed to make decisions like that on behalf of your care.” It _is_ different. Surely it is, and for more reasons than that. Draco simply can’t pinpoint them right now.

“And it’s not because you just can’t stand seeing me in the fucking chair anymore?” Harry demands with an edge to his voice.

“Harry,” Draco says faintly. His hands skim up to Harry’s thigh, stroking softly now, more for reassurance than massage. His throat feels tight. “ _No_. I wouldn’t care if you were in the chair for the rest of your life.”

“You were angry that I wrote Molly without telling you,” Harry mutters, studiously avoiding his eyes now. “Even though you were the one who encouraged it.”

Draco blinks, feeling the comforting rasp of the hair on Harry’s thigh against his palms, petting it gently. “I wasn’t. I was surprised. Confused, maybe. A little—” He swallows hard, unsure why it’s difficult to admit. “Hurt.”

“Hurt?” Harry lifts his head, finally looking at him. The strong line of his brow knits together; his scar becomes an unrecognisable shape. “Why would that have hurt you?”

Biting his lip, Draco looks down. He watches his hands move over Harry’s skin as he answers. “We—you—things have been different. I don’t know, really. I simply thought you would have mentioned it. There are too many things we don’t talk about.”

Harry lifts himself up onto his elbows. Draco can feel his stare. “You don’t tell me things, either,” he murmurs inscrutably.

“Yes,” Draco acknowledges, “There are things I don’t tell you.”

“Will you ever?”

“Will you tell me yours?” Draco counters quietly. He’s not talking about writing one’s family, or confronting one’s resentment. By Harry’s sharp inhalation, Draco supposes he understands.

“No,” he says roughly. Draco’s heart pounds; there’s a sour taste in his throat. And then Harry adds, “Not now. Just—not now.”

“Okay.” Draco doesn’t know why it’s so difficult to ask—to talk—about the things they hold private. Perhaps it’s simply that he’s afraid of what questions he’ll have to answer in return for knowing Harry’s secrets.

His fingers are moving slowly now, and Harry shifts his leg slightly, outwards. Learning someone’s body is a bit like being an expert in cartography; Draco’s hands fall and slide and compress as if following an unwritten roadmap to the spots that Harry responds to: the hamstring behind his knee, a smooth patch of hairless skin on the inside of his thigh, the crease where his leg meets his groin. His touch is questing and simple now that Harry’s pain has passed; he just craves the closeness of the contact.

His eyes are still on his hands when Harry interrupts his reverie.

“Draco,” he says, hushed.

Draco looks up again. Harry’s holding himself perfectly still, almost carefully, as if he’s afraid to move. His eyes are wide and blank.

Draco follows his gaze to Harry’s groin, where Harry’s cock rises, thick and heavy and hard.

Surprise robs Draco of speech. “When—”

Harry’s chest shakes a little; he barks a wild laugh, quickly stifled. “You’re just—touching me. My legs.”

Aroused pleasure zips through Draco; he feels the twinge in his cock and, deeper, in his chest. He catches Harry’s eyes with a smile. “Your legs?”

“Feel fine,” Harry rumbles, low. He’s still not moving. His cock jerks a bit, deepening in colour. “You weren’t even—”

Draco holds back a laugh. “I wasn’t even,” he agrees seriously, and the corner of Harry’s mouth quirks up. He finally takes his eyes off his erection to look at Draco. They’re as deeply shadowed as the Forbidden Forest, but so much warmer.

“This hasn’t…” Harry clears his throat. “This hasn’t happened yet.”

Draco’s slides up, threading through Harry’s curling pubic hair. He grips a bit and gives it a sharp little tug. “It’s happening now.” He directs a faint smile upward. “We were arguing just a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah,” Harry says thickly. “Maybe I like arguing with you, Malfoy. Maybe it turns me on.”

Draco’s stomach flutters with interest and he slips on a sneer, enjoying himself. “You’re a sick twist, Potter,” he drawls, spitting out the name as two sharp syllables as Harry’s expression flares with desire. “I bet it’s always turned you on. I bet you’ve always wanted me.”

“Maybe I have,” Harry rasps as his pupils dilate. He reaches down and covers Draco’s hand in his own, tugging it up over his erection. Draco raises a haughty eyebrow at him, winding his fingers around it.

“This is what you want?” he asks, low and smooth, fingers deftly working Harry’s foreskin back. He’s never heard this quality to his voice before he and Harry have begun fucking with such wild abandon in the last few weeks and he wonders what that means. Where he learned it.

“Mmm, yeah,” Harry breathes. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, arching his throat. He gives a couple of light, stilted thrusts upward.

“Are you sure?” Draco probes, tone gone down to a purr. Harry’s foreskin is stretched tight over his shaft, and Draco pulls at it slowly, dragging it down over the head of Harry’s cock and then pulling back slowly to expose it. Harry’s slit is already shiny with moisture. Draco leans down and blows on it lightly. His lips brush against the skin there. “Or something else, maybe?”

“God, Malfoy,” Harry says raggedly. His throat works in silence for a moment. Then, “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop what?” he asks, sliding down onto his side between Harry’s open legs. He tightens his hand and gives another lingering pull. “What should I not stop, Potter? What would you like me to do to you? If we were seventeen, what would you ask me?”

“I-suck me, Malfoy. Suck me off,” Harry chokes out. “Christ, I want to come in your mouth.”

A twist of desire pulls Draco down; he stretches his mouth wide over Harry’s cock and sucks him in, finding his own erection with a lazy hand as he does so. Harry shudders, bucking vulgarly into his mouth, which only serves to turn Draco on further. He covers his teeth and bobs his head lightly, varying speeds the way that Harry enjoys, his tongue swirling around the tip when he pulls away so he can taste the pearl of fluid lingering there, bitter and sharp. Then he takes Harry deep, relaxing and contracting his throat when the head of Harry’s cock is nudging the back of it. Harry releases a hoarse sound of longing, and he buries his hand in Draco’s hair, guiding him into a fast tempo then suddenly, shockingly, he’s coming, spilling hard into Draco’s mouth.

Draco makes a noise of surprise as he swallows, letting go of himself to steady Harry’s jerking cock with both hands. Harry is panting hard. He looks at Draco disbelievingly when he pulls off.

“I can’t believe that just happened.”

Draco smirks. “I’ve been told my blowjobs are amazing,” he says lightly.

Harry rolls his eyes, but he looks like he’s barely tamping down on an expression of childlike glee. “ _I_ told you that. Two days ago. But they’ve never made me—”

“I beg to differ,” Draco says, pretending to be offended.

“I mean, so quickly,” Harry clarifies.

“Is that a bad thing?”

Harry pauses. His mouth curves ruefully. “I sure as hell hope it’s not an indicator of another timing issue, that’s all. Or a major role-playing kink developing,” he says, and Draco laughs. Harry bites his lip, a hungry look coming over his face. “You’re still hard.”

Draco looks down; lifts his eyebrows. “I am, at that. Are you volunteering to help?”

“No,” Harry says slowly. “I think I’d much rather watch.”

Draco sucks in a breath. “Th-that’s not—”

Harry grins, flashing all of his teeth, and even as a child Draco knew he was evil.

“I’ll remind you that you just got me off by reminding me what a hot, bratty little piece you were at seventeen,” Harry tells him, and Draco can feel himself blush. It’s not strictly his fault that he colours so easily; Malfoys have always been fair. “But I don’t want to have to,” Harry continues. “I want to watch you touch yourself.”

Draco narrows his eyes at the implicit challenge. He slowly comes up onto his knees between Harry’s spread thighs, sitting back against his heels. His cock is aching, flush with blood. They’ve done this before, of course. Touched themselves in the other’s presence. It’s simply that this is more deliberate; he feels laid completely bare at the idea of being on display. Draco reaches for his wand and presses the tip of it into his palm, murmuring and coating it with oil. Harry’s eyes are drawn to Draco’s prick, which rises stiffly away from his body, and his mouth parts slightly as Draco strokes his hand over the taut muscles of his stomach, down to take himself in hand.

Draco usually masturbates in the shower for quick release more than pleasure, but he can see that’s not what Harry’s looking for. He winds his fingers around the base of his cock, then strokes downward slowly, lightly, biting his lip and letting his eyes drift shut.

Harry groans a little, but Draco doesn’t open his eyes. He leans backward slightly on his heels, adjusting his grip. His erection fills his palm and he focuses on the sensations it brings: sharp little tingles of pleasure when he tightens his hand into a fist; stronger jolts that make him shudder as he plays with his foreskin, smoothing it over his shaft; a burst of white heat as he dips his fingers into the pre-come starting to leak from the slit and spreads it around the sensitive head.

He reaches down with his free hand and fondles his balls with unhurried fingertips, toying with the skin as it tightens. He cups them, his palm a bowl, and rolls them slowly. His cock throbs—a reminder—and he moves his hand more quickly, increasing the pressure of his grip. Harry gives a long, breathy moan, and Draco opens his eyes.

Harry’s gaze is burning, hypnotized. His cheeks are stained pink, the tips of his ears red, and he wets his lips as Draco watches. His chest rises and falls quickly as Draco speeds up the movements of his hand, the quiet, wet sounds of his wanking filling the room.

“Yes, Draco,” Harry says when he notices Draco’s eyes have opened. His face is stark with lust, almost frightening in its intensity. “Just like that.”

Draco widens his legs slightly, opening himself up so that Harry will be able to see the curve of his arse between them, and grunts as he pulls on his cock, beginning to feel a little mad from the sheer want streaking through him, the adrenaline of putting that look on Harry’s face, his climax drawing near. His hand becomes rougher, tightening almost to the point of pain as he jerks his shaft, slick thumb smearing over the vein on the underside of his cock. His hold on his balls becomes more deliberate and he pulls on them, feeling the tension gather at the base of his spine, head dropping forward. He thrusts into his hand, hips moving of their own accord, and he hears himself chanting Harry’s name as though it’s an incantation or a prayer.

“Draco,” Harry whispers, “Come on my cock.”

The words lance through him, incomprehensible, and Draco groans as he starts to come. He points his pulsing cock at Harry as he spurts long stripes of semen, streaking Harry’s prick and dark, surrounding hair with fluids, his body trembling as his hand wrings out the last of his pleasure. When it’s over, he sits dazed, staring at the mess he’s made, the mess that marks Harry as his, at least for the moment.

Harry pulls a little face. “I keep thinking you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, and then you keep managing to top it,” he mutters, then admits, “I was sure that would get me hard again.”

“Not enough to make two giant strides in one day,” Draco pants out snidely, ignoring the compliment. “You’re Harry Potter, and so of course you must canvas the whole bloody island.”

Harry snorts.

“You,” Draco continues on a shaky breath, “Do not dictate your treatment. I do.” Harry’s eyebrows rise so high, they disappear under his fringe. Draco calmly picks up his wand and spells away the mess, then brandishes it at Harry pointedly. “You don’t refuse to wake me if and when you’re in pain. There are things we haven’t talked about, yes, but that will not be one of them.”

Harry’s mouth twitches, and he gives a clipped, obedient nod.

“And I won’t make any more unilateral decisions,” Draco concedes heavily.

Harry’s eyes soften and he nods again. “I like you so much.”

Draco’s heart thunders at this. It’s not _I love you_ —he can’t allow Harry to say it; can barely allow himself to think it. But in some ways, it’s even better.

He crawls up and kisses Harry on his jaw, on the mouth.

“I like you too,” he whispers.

***

It doesn’t take Harry a week to stand on his foot for thirty seconds. Despite Draco’s admonishments not to push himself too hard, Harry somehow simply _masters_ the use of his leg through what must be colossal discomfort. Draco suspects at first that Harry is using magic to ease the transition—which wouldn’t be helpful in the slightest—but comes to realise that if he is, he’s simply pulling from the deep reserves within him. His control over his own body is nerve-wracking in the extreme. Draco has never seen another patient so grimly committed to forcing himself along at such a breakneck speed.

Although Harry obeys Draco’s demand that he allow Draco to dictate his treatment, he’s subversive in smaller ways: his legs never stop moving, even during meal times, even when it pains him, and he adds extra kilograms to his leg weights every morning and evening. So, Draco does what he can to minimize the potential damage by rubbing him down for twice as long as is strictly necessary. And rather than restricting himself to one massage before bed, he does it after each session.

By the fourth day, Harry can balance on his leg without holding onto the bars. By the fifth, he can do it for over a minute. By the time Doctor Marsh returns, Harry can take halting, hopping steps using the bars to facilitate his movement across the length of them.

If Doctor Marsh is surprised with his progress—perhaps it’s the name Harry Potter that makes the whole thing more feasible—he doesn’t show it. He simply watches Harry hop-walk the length of the bars with great delight, then helps guide him over to a chair to sit in.

Harry looks vaguely ill, and Draco walks to stand beside him, placing one hand firmly on his shoulder. The addition of a prosthetic is a surprisingly jarring experience for most amputees, Muggle or wizard, in Draco’s experience. No matter how they may have longed for it, fitting the new limb over their injury usually reminds them primarily of what they’ve lost.

“Are you ready?” Doctor Marsh pulls out a small bag.

“Yeah,” Harry says dismally.

Draco exchanges glances with the doctor, whose cheerful tone doesn’t fade, but gentles. “Once the limb has taken shape, it will remain that way even when removed. Detaching it takes several seconds, but I’m afraid attaching it can take well over a minute. Please don’t be alarmed if you feel some discomfort the first time,” he adds, “That’s very normal.”

Harry’s face is ashen, but he nods slowly. Doctor Marsh reaches into the bag—it must have an extension charm on it—and pulls out a long, formless piece of solid material like narrow, carved branch, the approximate length of Harry’s leg from the knee down. Harry blanches at seeing it, and Draco squeezes his shoulder roughly. Harry’s reaches up to cover Draco’s hand with his own, fingers unsteady as the doctor kneels before him.

He presses one end of the product to Harry’s stump and pulls his wand, and murmurs “ _Iungere Absentis Pars_ ” softly three times in succession, skimming his wand point in careful loops over the skin of Harry’s thigh and the material of the prosthetic, as though tying a knot in the air. The thing blurs, white and glowing, and then simply _fuses_ to Harry’s leg, the skin and new limb knitting themselves together in what looks to be a painful flare of movement. Harry sucks in a soft breath, still staring down at the formless prosthetic, and then Doctor Marsh says “ _Aperio Statua Contrecto,_ ” and the mist around the formless stick begins to shape itself slowly, swirling the thing into the vague, blurry shape of a knee and calf and foot, which solidifies into something more substantial as the seconds tick past. It eventually darkens to something flesh-coloured, although retains an unnatural luminosity that brightens for a moment as a sizzling sound fills the air and the disjointed line where Harry’s skin is connected to the prosthetic disappears.

“Wait for a minute,” the doctor murmurs, eyes on Harry’s face.

The room is silent but for Harry’s harsh breathing, and then Harry makes a broken, desperate sound and reaches out, holding his newly-formed knee in the palm of his hand. His foot wiggles and he stretches it out, curls it, the muscles in his calf bunching.

“I—”

Doctor Marsh waves his wand, presumably to take a diagnostic of how well the item has fused with Harry’s flesh and bone, and gives Draco a pleased little smile. He sharply taps the patellar ligament in the glowing knee with two stiffened fingers and Harry’s leg jerks in response.

“You can feel that?”

“I can feel that,” Harry echoes.

“Perfect,” the doctor says, then smoothly segues into the wand motions and words required to join the prosthetic to Harry’s leg, and the simple charm to remove it. Harry grits is teeth but remains silent as Doctor Marsh gives an example, lifting the prosthetic up and away from Harry’s leg when it’s separated. It does, indeed, maintain the shape of Harry’s lower leg, the hinge of the knee a hollow joint to fit his stump into. They run through this practice three times as Draco listens with half an ear, not taking his eyes off of Harry the whole time.

At length, the doctor departs after making an appointment to return in a couple of weeks to follow up and instructing them to call if there are any problems with the weight or fit.

Harry doesn’t say anything for a long while, and then, numbly, “I have a leg again.”

“You do.”

“I need to learn to walk on it,” he continues blankly.

“You will,” Draco tells him. “I’ll help you.”

Harry cranes his neck to look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed and have a bright sheen of wet over the green. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Harry,” Draco says with no small amount of amusement, “You defeated the Dark Lord. I’m fairly certain you can do anything you decide to.”

“I used your wand to do it,” Harry reminds him quietly, and Draco’s heart stutters at the sincere gratitude in his voice.

They’ve never talked about it. Draco hopes they never need to. He squeezes Harry’s shoulder in acknowledgement and the other man gives him a smile as if to say, _Don’t worry_.

Draco takes a deep breath. “Would you like to try walking on it?”

Harry’s mouth purses to the side, and he gives Draco an apologetic look. “Can I—would you—”

“What do you need, Harry?” Draco prompts quietly.

“I need a few minutes alone,” he admits. “Maybe you could go invite Ron and Hermione over for supper? I’ll be down soon.”

Draco looks at him wistfully. With the exclusion of the children he’s worked with, almost every single one of his clients has needed some privacy after an occasion like this. Perhaps not immediately, but there always comes a moment. He’s always wondered why it seemed to hurt their partners—it’s such a simple request—that’s he’s surprised when he feels the echo of sadness and understanding. He wants to be here to celebrate with Harry; wants to tell him how proud he is, what an amazing job he’s done.

Instead, he cards his fingers through Harry’s thick hair and leans down to kiss him before walking from the room.

***

Hermione comes stepping out of the Floo, followed quickly by Ron. Draco favours them with a reserved smile. He gestures to indicate that they sit, which they do, looking bewildered.

“I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you this evening.”

Ron snorts. “Well, you did. We had a very busy, important night of sitting around listening to the wireless. Malfoy, why are you sounding all weird and posh and formal again?”

Hermione gives his arm a little slap, but waits for Draco to answer with bright, curious eyes. The news is trying to fling itself off his tongue, but he bites it back.

“Harry wanted to talk to you.”

“You said,” Hermione says cautiously. “It’s not bad news, is it?”

“I—No. But something he wishes to discuss with you,” Draco explains. “Would either of you like something to drink? He’ll be down shortly.”

Hermione’s face flickers with a variety of expressions before she seems to will it into pleasant. She leans back against the sofa. “Water is fine.”

“Ron?”

Ron still looks dubious. “Whisky.”

Draco stands and pours him a drink from the sidebar, then splashes some cold, lemon-flavoured water with his wand into glasses for Hermione and himself, levitating their drinks over to them. They sip in remarkably polite silence for a moment.

And then of course Granger has to speak.

“So you’re sleeping with Harry.”

Draco chokes on his water. Coughing, he glares at her. At Ron. Ron shrugs. “ _I_ didn’t tell her. ‘Mione just knows stuff.”

“It’s funny,” she muses. “There was nothing whatsoever in your contract about not sleeping with a patient.  I checked.”

Draco flushes; with anger or shame, he can’t be sure. “That’s because it honestly never occurred to me that I could ever compromise or allow myself to be so compromised by a client.”

“So you’re aware of the breach in ethics?” she enquires calmly, as if simply verifying information.

“Quite,” Draco grits out.

“I admit I wasn’t expecting it when we first contracted you, although perhaps I should have,” she continues lightly. “You’re aware of _why_ it’s such a breach in ethics as well, I trust?”

Because of the inherent power structure of a patient/Healer relationship. Because it is easy to formulate or conjure emotional and sexual feelings based on gratitude and the amount of trust that one puts into one’s Healer. For so many reasons. Draco doesn’t say this.  Fuming, he gives a clipped nod.

“And yet, _Granger_ ,” he says, watching her blink at the address with surprise, “You and your husband were the ones to seek _me_ out, understanding my shared history with Harry. Understanding that there would be underlying feelings involved that could easily translate into a deeper connection. You were well aware from the beginning that ours would not be a standard working relationship, and yet you chose to contract me anyway.”

He falls silent and waits for her eruption. It doesn’t come. If anything, she looks quietly pleased. Ron, however, is looking back and forth between them, as though on the verge of panic.

“Um. ‘Mione,” he says hesitantly, and with astonishment Draco realises that Ron means to defend him, “We always knew that Harry was a bit—off his nut about Malfoy. And Harry looks, I mean, don’t we want him to be—”

She looks at Draco steadily. “I won’t have him hurt,” she says. “But I don’t think you’re likely to hurt him. I just felt it was something that needed to be addressed.”

Draco looks away, throat working. Of course Harry is going to get hurt. So is he. There is virtually no scenario where the whole thing doesn’t blow up in their faces like a badly-brewed potion.

“I’ll be sure to inform you each time we have a disagreement so that I can get your permission to fight with him,” he says stiffly.

Her face flickers. “I just meant to—”

Draco sighs. He rubs a hand over his face. “I know what you meant, Hermione. It’s fine. You’re not… wrong.”

Regret flickers over her face before she smooths it out. “Just so we understand each other.”

Draco nods, and she extends him a cautious smile. “Is Harry going to come down any time soon?”

“He needed a few minutes to himself,” Draco mutters, ears burning. He stalks over to the bar and fixes himself an actual drink, tossing it back with a long, burning gulp and then turning to stare at the stairs in an accusing manner as if doing so will encourage Harry to come down.

Which, somehow, seems to work.

He expects to see Harry’s face, broken open with a solemn sort of excitement as he descends from the staircase in the stair chair. He expects Harry to display his new leg with some trepidation for witnessing their joy, for matching it with his own.

In a million years, he would not have expected this.

Harry’s descent is laboured and loud as he comes down the stairs. His face is tight with an agonised, grim sort of triumph; sweat glistens at his temples and his arms are shaking with effort.

As he walks.

Draco’s mouth opens in blank shock and he barely notices himself raising his wand in preparation for Harry’s fall. But Harry remains walking, leaning heavily on a cane that Draco has never seen before, eyes glinting with effort. He gets to the landing and takes a moment, panting. Then he straightens, squares his shoulders, and walks over to where all three of them are gaping at him with various levels of astonishment. Unlike on the stairs, he seems to have more control—or at least a way to mask his lack of it. His steps are not smooth; he is limping and relying too much on his cane—which he’s holding incorrectly—but he makes it over to them shortly and stands, out of breath, and waits for them to react.

And underneath his gnawing fear and anger, Draco’s heart bursts with something strange and perfect and undeniable.

***

Counterpoint: Harry

Despite his best efforts to discount the doctor as yet another Healer there to replenish his stores of hope with impossible promises, Harry finds he quite likes Doctor Marsh. The man seems part mad-wizarding scientist and part genial uncle. He is direct and cheerful, and answers Harry’s questions with what seems to be blunt honesty. It makes it almost easy to forgive Draco for going behind his back.

Almost.

Draco says he wants Harry to be happy; claims that he called the doctor for him. But as much as Harry needs to walk again—as much as he wants his life to be what it once was—he feels a streak of white-hot betrayal that Draco did this without him. He wants out of this goddamned chair, but it stings to wonder if Draco _needs_ him out of it, even knowing what he does about the other man’s past.

Loving Draco makes everything better, and everything so much worse.

His anger remains with him until later that night when Draco’s beautiful, long-fingered hands stroke his pain away. Draco is completely intent on his actions, and Harry finds himself luxuriating in Draco’s touch. He doesn’t realise he’s gotten hard with no direct stimuli until his cock twitches and begins to leak a little. He’s turned on and confused by the development, as though he’s never even _had_ an erection before, but Draco is calm.

Harry anticipates his hands, his mouth, but cannot predict what Draco’s light game of role-play will do to him, arousing him to the point of pain, and he comes more quickly than he has in years—to say nothing of his body since his convalescence—his orgasm hitting him like the air in a wind-tunnel, swamping all of his senses with no preparation.

It’s simply that—when Draco gives these parts of himself, it never stops being a surprise, never lessens in its beauty. There is an improbable dream-like quality to the whole thing—to being in love with Draco _Malfoy_. And Harry will do anything, forgive anything, to keep collecting these strange, guarded pieces of affection and eroticism that Draco scatters around him like stardust.

Draco allows Harry to push himself hard over the next week, but tries to rein him in when he feels Harry is going too far. Harry tries to comply, but when Draco goes out on an errand, or pops over to the Manor for a moment, or holes up in the study for an hour, or falls asleep beside Harry, boneless with exhaustion, Harry makes himself stand.

He has never shown much regard for limits, and this is how he’s managed to surpass them all; by pretending they don’t exist.

He transfigures an umbrella into a cane when Draco is not around, and uses it as a prop to lean against as his left leg begins to adjust to the weight. Draco is suspicious, of course, even demanding to know if Harry is using his magic to further his progress. He’s not wrong. But Harry uses it in the way he always has; thoughtlessly, drawing deep from within as though his _magic_ is simply another limb to be depended upon. And because of Draco, he has it all back.

When Doctor Marsh visits a week later, Harry is more than ready for the whole thing to be over. Whether due to Harry’s celebrity, Hermione’s advocacy on his behalf, or the fact that Doctor Marsh knows Draco personally, the doctor lends out his world-renowned services to Harry as though it’s as simple as a first-year spell rather than designing a whole new limb for someone to use on a daily basis. The transformation is painful, but Harry refuses to make a single noise of complaint for the gift he’s receiving; something, he knows, not everyone is lucky enough to get.

When the leg is on, Harry finds himself staring at it, feeling as though it may disappear any moment. A part of him, too, is completely appalled; it’s better and more realistic than Draco’s mirroring charm, but it still shimmers too bright to be skin. He can _feel_ it, _move_ it, but can still sense the phantom-limb pain that has plagued him for over a year, albeit muted, now. The goddamn thing even has hair to match his left leg, so why is he feeling so lost?

It doesn’t matter; it’s nothing he needs to unpack. He asks Draco to invite Ron and Hermione over, and then Summons his umbrella from his bedroom, transfiguring it and standing. And Merlin _fuck_ , it hurts. His stump aches down to the marrow of his thigh, completely unused to the pressure of the weight-bearing exercises his left leg has become more accustomed to. His left leg doesn’t fare much better; it’s shaky and torturous to walk the six feet over to the bars.

When he gets there, Harry leans his cane against one end of them and stands in the middle. Carefully hovering his hands over the bars in case his legs should give, he takes one halting step, then another. He walks the length of the bars, pauses, turns around, and does it again. After several minutes, his whole body is trembling, but he doesn’t ever want to sit down again.

He looks at his chair with a curl of disgust pulling his lip up, then says a mental fuck you to it and limps down the stairs. Ron and Hermione’s faces are priceless and Harry makes a note to commit the memory to a Pensieve vial later, but really he only has eyes for Draco.

Draco’s wand is raised as he walks down the stairs; Harry doesn’t know whether he’s casting cushioning charms or just waiting to knit Harry’s bones back together should he fall. But it doesn’t matter. Beneath his shock, there is unbearable pride, and Harry wants to wallow in it, wants to spend the rest of his life making Draco proud of him.

“You stupid, _stupid_ berk,” Draco hisses when Harry reaches them. Only he could say something like that and still manage to sound fond. “Sit the bloody fuck down.”

“I’ve been sitting down for too long already,” Harry tries to tease, but his voice comes out sounding weak.

Draco’s face tightens. “And if you have an accident, you could set back your recovery for years. Do as I say,” he snaps.

Because Harry really is tired, he obeys, shuffling over to the sofa to fall back on it. The release of pressure in his right thigh makes him groan.

Hermione collapses beside him and, absurdly, begins laughing. “Harry!” she finally wheezes out, delighted. “When—”

“Today,” Draco supplies, still a bit forbidding. He folds his arms in front of himself, his mouth going hard and thin, and clips out, “He’s barely learned to bear weight on his other leg. You fool.”

Harry just smiles tiredly up at him, hands moving to massage his right thigh. The whole thing feels bizarre; he can feel the prosthetic almost as though it were a natural extension of himself, but all of the pain in his leg is rooted to his stump and hip and thigh, creating a strange disconnect of sensation.

“Sorry, _Malfoy_ ,” he says, eyes glinting mischievously. Draco flushes; his arms remain crossed, but his shoulders come down a bit. Then he shakes his head and moves over to crouch in front of Harry, batting his hands away to do the work himself, finding the soreness so easily that Harry groans.

“How?” Hermione continues, still unable to—for once—form a fully coherent thought.

“Draco,” Harry says softly. Draco’s head comes up as though Harry is addressing him, although Harry is just answering her question. “Draco did it. He did all of it.”

Hermione bites her lip and casts a strangely guilty expression at Draco, who doesn’t notice as he continues to diligently work on Harry’s leg.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco snips out with no heat. “You did this.”

“Of course he did. But I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit,” Hermione says softly, like an apology. Harry wants to know what has transpired between them, but Draco’s hands are too soothing, and all of his muscles feel like he’s been duelling for three days straight.

He glances up and sees Ron still standing there silent, face ghostly white under the bright carrot red of his hair. “Ron?”

Ron swallows visibly. “I’m really—happy for you,” he gets out. “I never thought—” He stops as if he needs to control himself; his eyes are wet.

“Thanks,” Harry returns. “I wanted to show you guys first. For finding Draco. For—bearing with me,” he admits hoarsely, voice trailing off into an embarrassed sigh.

“Merlin, Harry,” Ron mutters, and then his cheeks are no longer white but red, just like that, out of nowhere. “Did you think we’d ever leave?”

 _I tried hard enough to make you_ , Harry thinks. Then some dark part of him adds, _Sometimes I still want you to._ It’s so unfair that he closes his eyes to escape the ugliness of it.

“Better now?” Draco murmurs, hands stilling. Harry nods, opening his eyes to look at him. Draco looks watchful, concerned.

“Better,” Harry says.

“All right.” He stands, smoothing his trousers with such a close attention to detail it indicates he’s preoccupied with other thoughts. He forces a smile and looks at Ron and Hermione. “Piddy has made dinner to celebrate. We should eat.”

***

The next two weeks pass in a flurry of productive activity that Harry suspects is not only done to help him walk, but also designed to drive him mad.

After Ron and Hermione had left for home that first night, Draco had announced that if Harry wanted to learn to walk properly, they would have to focus their energies on actually helping him learn to do it. The worst part was that Draco had given him a choice, trying to make it sound like it wasn’t an ultimatum: Harry could give up sex until he was properly on his feet, or Draco would find him a therapist who wasn’t so distracting and _easy to disregard_ (said pointedly).

That night it had been too difficult to ignore each other in bed. Harry had woken up pressed flush against Draco’s naked back, perhaps the first time he had rolled over without the wakefulness required for deliberation. Draco had been sleeping, chest rising and falling in gentle heaves, and Harry had slicked up his finger with his wand, rubbing at Draco’s rim until he’d awoken, already too aroused to deny Harry. After they were finished, he’d given Harry an aggravated look and fallen back to sleep, then woken up Harry a few hours later by softly sucking on his cock.

So Harry hadn’t taken his decree too seriously. Until the following night, when Draco had set up a charm to alert him if Harry was in any pain, and had gone to sleep in the guest bedroom.

Draco refuses to give him a timeline with which to look forward to; he simply says that Harry will know when he’s ready, even though Harry feels ready now, _all the time_ , and Draco is a complete _arsehole_. And although Draco still laughs with him and kisses him and trains him and praises him while they work, the distance between them feels like a prophecy spoken in a Seer’s ethereal, wavering voice.

He insists that Harry take his time, not rush, to push only to the point of intense discomfort rather than outright pain. The first two days, he makes Harry use the chair but for their training session six times daily, and Harry grudgingly allows himself to be restrained to walking the length of the bars back and forth, holding onto them. For days three through five, Harry is permitted to walk short distances—to the downstairs loo from the kitchen, to his attached en suite in the middle of the night (basically, whenever he needs to piss) with a walker; _not_ his cane, which Draco explains huffily that Harry is using _all_ wrong.

On day five, Draco teaches him how to grip the cane just so, how to hold it with his left hand rather than his right, but how to move it in time with every step his right foot takes. He then watches carefully as Harry navigates the stairs, up and down them twice each day, thighs burning, before loosening some of his restrictions and allowing Harry (on day eight) to walk wherever he wants, after securing Harry’s promise that he will sit down for twenty minutes if he’s been standing or walking for more than ten.

And he still retires to the guest room each night.

In the second week, he and Harry begin taking short walks. Harry suspects Draco has his chair shrunken in his pocket in case Harry tires, but neither of them comment on it. Some enterprising wizard happens to see them walking through a park one street over and snaps a picture. The next morning, the distasteful headline reads: **_THE BOY WHO LIVED TO FIGHT AGAIN: OUR SAVIOR, RETURNED TO US!_ ** The article is full of speculation on when Harry will return to work, and the only thing good about it is that someone has actually bothered to do some real research; Draco’s Death Eater past is mentioned but skimmed over in favour of highlighting the work he’s done since the war. Harry passes the article over to Draco, thinking it might please him, but the other man refuses to read it.

By the time Doctor Marsh returns on day fifteen, Harry requires the cane only during the process of standing up or sitting down—his hips are still troublesome—and when he’s been walking for an extended period of time. He still has a strong, leaning limp—his leg feels heavier than it used to, which changes his entire centre of gravity—but just to be walking again, to be mobile, feels so good, he doesn’t think about it too much. The limp will go away eventually, he’s sure.

“Any pain?” the doctor asks, checking the seal connecting Harry’s flesh and the material of the charmed limb.

Harry grimaces. “A bit. It sometimes feels—loose, maybe? And the bone aches. But it hasn’t hurt has much as it probably should have,” he admits. “Draco’s been trying to protect me from myself. I insisted on walking the first day I had it on.”

Doctor Marsh chuckles. “I wish I could say I was surprised, but now having met you… It seems you and Draco work well together. I was under the impression you had scared away half of the physiotherapists in Britain. The Healing community talks,” he adds with a knowing grin. He spells the limb off of Harry’s leg and taps the knee with his wand; the hinge shudders a little, going bright with magic.

“Draco and I have a history,” Harry murmurs. “My friends realised I might not be able to turn him away so easily.”

“Yes, I’ve read something about that. You have good friends,” the other man says with a warm smile, ticking a glance up to him before continuing to inspect the limb. “And they made a good pick. Draco is top in his field. I’ve been after him for years.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hmmm.” Doctor Marsh narrows his eyes at the object, then makes a flippy little motion with his wand at the thing, and the joint swings back and forth. He looks up. “Oh. Yes, Draco. I’ve been trying to hire him for my clinic for the last several years but the stubborn man insists on continuing with in-home care as if I don’t house patients in our facility. It would give him the opportunity to not only work closely with patients but to be included in the research as well.”

Harry digests this as the doctor squats before him and inspects his leg. He places the limb back against it and spells it on; Harry ignores the now-familiar tingling burn as his skin fuses with it and the deeper ache of it connecting to his bones.

“You’re based in Scotland, right?”

“Yes. How’s that feel?”

Harry gives an experimental bend of the knee. “Good. Tighter.”

“Not too tight?”

Harry stands and takes a few steps. “Does Draco ever give a reason why?” he asks casually, then gestures to his leg. “This is better.”

Doctor Marsh tucks away his wand, eyes following Harry as he continues to take experimental steps, bending his knee every few paces. “He prefers his life the way it is,” he answers absently, then smiles. “Do you have any questions before I leave?”

“When do you think I’ll stop limping?”

Giving him a surprised look, Doctor Marsh scratches his chin. “I don’t know that you will, completely,” he says honestly. “But based on your progress, I feel confident that you’re only a few months, at the most, away from walking to your peak ability.”

Harry sucks in a breath. “You know I’m—I was—an Auror.”

The doctor nods slowly. “Yes.”

“I’ve been under the impression that I would be able to go back into fieldwork when I was walking again,” Harry says, struggling to keep his voice even.

“I can’t presume to make such a supposition either way. Although I can’t imagine that someone of your skills would have a difficult time in a wand fight, even if you retain a limp.” Doctor Marsh huffs a laugh. “Even if you have the limp you have now.”

It occurs to Harry that he’s glaring. His chest is burning with disappointed resentment, and he doesn’t know where to direct it, so he directs it at the floor, working to soften his expression. When he looks back up, Doctor Marsh looks apologetic.

“Harry, I assumed I had made clear—”

“You did,” Harry interrupts, swallowing. He lightens his voice. “I’m sorry. Got my hopes up for a minute there. Got ahead of myself.”

“It’s fine,” the doctor says gently. He gathers his things and heads over to shake Harry’s hand. “Please let me know if you need any sort of adjustment. If not, I’ll follow up with you in about a year.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, clasping his hand. “Really. Thank you.”

“Please give Draco my regards,” Doctor Marsh says on a half-smile, and departs.

Draco.

Harry sits down, not out of any desire to or from any pain in his leg, but because he mind feels suddenly clogged with questions. It’s never occurred to him to ask why Draco moves in with his clients; perhaps they’re simply like him, and easier to reach within their own homes. But he now wonders why Draco has never mentioned a job offer so close to Harry—not once, since their relationship has changed.

Harry wonders what other secrets he’s keeping. He wonders how to share his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't I promise you quicker updates when everything was beta-ed and edited? <3


	8. Flight

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Draco tries to keep the anxiety from his tone. “I think it would be prudent to wait.”

“But you’re not getting all bossy and forbidding me to do it,” Harry points out. He’s trying not to look smug, but it’s ill-disguised. “Which means you approve.”

“I don’t,” Draco snaps, but shoves the broom at him, anyway. “I just don’t know how I can stop you.”

“You could, Draco,” he says, abruptly serious. He steps closer and looks at him; his eyes are so green. Draco looks away.

“Well, I won’t,” Draco grumbles with bad grace. “If you feel you’re ready, I won’t fight you on it. You’ve been walking on that thing for weeks now.”

“Let’s really test it out, right?” Harry says with a waggle of his brows. The double-entendre is clear, and Draco presses his mouth together, refusing to dignify it with a response. 

It’s not as if the break in sexual activity has been easy for him, either. But after Hermione’s speech, after Harry was foolhardy enough to walk down the stairs after an hour of having a new leg, he’d known how desperately they’d needed some distance from other forms of intimacy. 

“I’m staying on the ground,” he says after a moment of silence. When Harry gives him a disappointed look, Draco shrugs. “This time. The first time. In case.”

Harry sighs and leans in to give Draco a light kiss on the corner of his mouth. His breath smells of tea and the pastries Molly had sent over with Ron that they’d eaten for dessert. “Thank you,” he says lowly, then marches out to his back patio. 

“Stay close enough for my charms to catch you,” Draco warns, and Harry shoots him an irritated look, but nods. 

He mounts the broom cautiously, looking nowhere near the amount of nervous Draco would like him to be because nervous equals careful. He gives a lopsided smile and kicks off.

Immediately, Draco can assess that the added weight from his leg is going to take Harry some getting used to. The broom shimmies a bit, listing to the right, and Harry grimaces and adjusts his seat, folding his legs up tighter to fit his feet into the rests more comfortably. His carriage is correct, same as it ever was, Draco realises as he watches; Harry has a distinctive seat on a broom, and it’s identical to what it was at the age of eleven: leaning forward, arse pushed back, shoulders straight but slightly tucked in. Draco loses his breath for a minute at the sheer elegance of it. 

Harry over-corrects a bit and tilts the other way, then catches himself. When he’s hovering steadily in the air, he gives Draco an annoyingly jaunty wink, angles the broomstick, and shoots straight up. Livid, Draco watches him go, but Harry surprises him by staying within charm-casting limits. He circles about twenty feet in the air, making clean, looping figure eights for a few minutes before trying a flip. Something happens, Draco can’t be sure what, and then Harry is sliding to one side violently. Quick reflexes save him and he clings to the broomstick for a moment, then slowly shifts, corkscrewing widely downward a few feet, modifying the way he holds his legs and the slant of his torso until he looks normal again. He begins easy, relaxing swoops and dips, getting a feel for the air and the direction of the wind, and does this for several more minutes.

Draco tries not to consider it but the thought nibbles on the edges of his thoughts like a moth chewing on preserved silk: Harry is a flyer. It’s the first thing, Draco thinks, that he ever really felt natural at in the wizarding world, and his heart throbs an unsteady rhythm to imagine what it’s doing to Harry that the thing he’s always loved so simply is now fraught with complications and dangerous edges.

Suddenly Harry shoots up again, higher this time, and immediately makes a long, sweeping dive toward the ground. Alarmed, Draco raises his wand, but Harry pulls up at the last second in what would be a beautiful demonstration of the Wronski Feint, if not for the way his broom shudders and wobbles, the tail clipping the ground hard and almost knocking Harry off his seat. Through some accident of luck or force of magic he manages to stick to his place and when it comes down again. He climbs off his broom, graceless but unharmed.

Draco releases a pent-up breath. “Well?”

Harry no longer looks cheerful or jaunty, but he’s not wearing his grim mask of anger, either. He looks at the broom thoughtfully and hands it over to Draco. “I’ll get better,” he says, and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. 

“I’ve no doubt.” Draco flicks his wand and sends the broom zooming back toward its closet. “It may help if you got a broom specially made, one that has charms inlaid in the twigs and handle for balance and quickness.”

Harry frowns, then shakes his head as if he doesn’t want to talk about it. He takes two halting steps forward, until his chest is brushing against Draco’s. Draco sucks in a breath but doesn’t move away. 

“You know, right?” Harry asks, voice gone low. He puts his hand around the back of Draco’s neck.

Draco swallows. He doesn’t want to say—doesn’t want to acknowledge what this broom ride really meant, and why Harry was so insistent upon it. He feels a flicker of nervous reluctance, and hears Hermione’s voice in his mind again, followed quickly by that of Doctor Marsh, whom Draco had run into while bringing in groceries before he’d left after Harry’s check-up.

“You’ve done a wonderful job with him,” Doctor Marsh had said, looking at him appraisingly. Draco smiled and set down his bags, unshrinking them with a quick flick of his wand as he braced himself for another job offer.

“He’s done most of the work,” he said calmly. “Too much, actually.”

The doctor smiled kindly. “It helps when patients have something to look forward to; something to live for. It gives them a _reason_.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed, looking away.

“Although becoming involved with their Healer shouldn’t be that reason,” Doctor Marsh continued quietly. His words sounded far more cautionary than judgemental, but Draco had flushed all the same.

“I know.”

“Be careful, Draco,” he said seriously. 

Draco couldn’t look him in the eye. “I will,” he’d managed, and Doctor Marsh had sighed softly before departing.

Draco lets himself remember for a few moments as the green of Harry’s eyes—shadowed, waiting—steadies him. He thinks of Hermione and of Doctor Marsh, and then of his mother.

“Yes,” he says, and Harry drags him forward and pulls him into a kiss. 

They have kissed every slip of skin on each other’s bodies, have kissed for hours, have kissed in a thousand different ways from affectionate to purposeful to lust-driven. And yet, somehow, it’s never been like _this_ , and Draco wonders fleetingly how much Harry has been holding back all this time before his thoughts spiral away like a shooting star into space and he’s left thinking only of Harry, the sun.

Harry’s tongue is filthy and ever-moving; he licks hotly into Draco’s mouth, uses his teeth roughly, sucks on Draco’s lip so hard it hurts and will probably be red in the morning. 

Draco allows the assault for a few moments—in truth, he barely knows how to react to his overwhelming senses—before returning Harry’s violence with his own. He grips handfuls of Harry’s hair, tangling his fingers through it and yanking hard on Harry’s scalp as Harry scrapes his tongue with his teeth and pulls Draco’s shirttails out of his trousers, then begins working on his front buttons. Faintly, Draco hears the tear of fabric as his shirt is shoved from his shoulders and Harry’s hands are so hot they feel feverish wherever he touches him; pressing on the small of Draco’s back, gripping the jut of his hipbone, tweaking his nipple roughly. Draco moans into Harry’s mouth, feverish too, and undoes his flies, desperate for skin contact, for touch, for _more_.

Harry wrestles him down onto the carpet, stretching out on top of him and Draco realises that he’s managed to walk them inside to the sitting room without Draco noticing. His hands are searching as well, shoving up Harry’s t-shirt under his armpits, shoving into the back of his jeans. Harry chokes out a ragged groan as Draco’s finger slips into the cleft at the top of his arse. He withdraws it only to shove it between them, pushing Harry’s jeans and boxers down so he can wrap a greedy hand around his cock. He jerks it frantically—Harry is already hard, and feels so fucking good filling up his palm—with one hand while simultaneously trying to work off his trousers with the other. 

_“No, no, no,”_ Harry mutters to himself, sounding distracted, and then he pinches the fabric of Draco’s trousers and they disappear. Along, somehow, with his pants and shoes and socks. Draco can’t even bother to be surprised because his whole body is on fire and Harry’s spellwork has Vanished his own clothing as well, and Harry’s cock is perfect in his hand, flush and stiff and leaking. He wants it in his mouth but Harry won’t stop kissing him long enough so that Draco can slide down his body. Harry kisses his mouth until it feels raw, then bends over Draco’s neck, using his teeth as though Draco is a well-cooked steak. He bites down hard and Draco gives a startled cry but arches into it, into the pain and the all-consuming force of Harry’s hunger. Harry licks as he bites, tongue traveling down to sweep his collarbones, the tendons of his throat, the sensitive skin underneath his ears. Draco will be bruised and maybe even bloody in the morning but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t, because Harry’s cock is pressing against his, rutting into his erection uncontrollably. Draco thrusts up against him, worming a hand between them again to wrap his fingers as far around both of their cocks at once as he can manage, pulling hard and tight as Harry goes lower still, catching Draco’s nipple in his mouth. Draco’s hand starts to work faster over them but he chokes off a cry when Harry grabs it away, leaving him breathless and aching, and pins both of his wrists to the floor. 

“Harry,” Draco gets out before his mouth is covered again. Harry rocks against him, sure and solid for all his lack of finesse, his cock a heavy, sticky slide over Draco’s as their pre-come mingles and smears over their skins. Draco winds his legs around Harry’s hips, rocking in time with him, closer and _closer_ , when Harry wrenches his mouth and form away from Draco’s shuddering body and flips him over, flat on his stomach—one smooth motion—leaving him dizzy and gasping. 

He presses his cheek to the carpet and tries to rise up on his knees, but Harry keeps him pinned, one unrelenting hand flat between Draco’s shoulder blades. Draco feels his first trickle of uncertainty through his overwhelming arousal—they’ve never done it like this, so fast, where Draco has no control over the speed or the motion or even _himself_ —but he shoves it away as Harry mumbles something, too quiet to hear over the roaring in his ears, and suddenly Draco’s hole is slick and loose. Harry strokes his rim with two fingers, a circling press, and then they slide inside, quick and easy. Again, Draco tries to scramble up, using his hands or his knees or _anything_ to get closer as Harry stabs into him with two fast fingers which press against his prostate on each drive in. Harry climbs on top of him and his fingers shift, quick and rough, and Draco bucks backwards with what little leverage he has as Harry brackets his upper thighs with his own, removes his fingers with a squelching noise, and replaces them with the swollen head of his cock.

Draco sucks in short, sharp little pants of breath as Harry’s erection pushes into his hole. He can take it, he knows, but the angle is so different it adds a new dimension of ache while simultaneously bringing Harry’s prick in direct contact with his prostate. His thighs are pressed tight together between Harry’s legs and as Harry bottoms out in him, he can feel the coarse curls at his groin rasp against the curve of his arse cheeks. He tightens them, already pressed together but for Harry’s cock in between and finally, _finally_ Harry starts fucking him, pulling out too far and then pressing forward too fast and all of it is too much of everything so Draco closes his eyes until pinpricks of light shine behind him as he writhes, lost in waves of pleasure. After every few pumps into him, Harry shoves deeper still and grinds against him, rolling his hips. 

Draco tries to participate but all he can do is rub his cock against the soft fibres of the carpet beneath him every time the force of Harry’s thrusts rock him forward. It feels amazing and not enough until Harry grabs his hair and lifts Draco’s head as he rides him. Draco reaches back blindly with his arms, wanting to touch him, but Harry lets go of his hair and captures Draco’s wrists again, bending him backward slightly from the shoulders. His muscles stretch, protest, but Draco only hears himself say, _“Yes, yes, oh Merlin, Harry, please,”_ as Harry’s fingers stroke down to clamp over Draco’s nipple again, spearing zings of shock through his dragging shaft, his penetrated arse, and his balls, which throb with impending release. 

Then Harry mumbles, _“Want you so much, Draco, Draco,”_ in a cracking, broken voice and Draco hears himself sob, his cock jerking as Harry pounds into his prostate. His climax is torn from him as violently as his shirt was and he comes in long, pulsing spurts all over the floor. Harry releases Draco’s wrists and he falls forward, catching himself barely on his palms before his face hits the floor, then lowers himself to lie docilely, almost dreamily limp, against the carpet as Harry’s hips pick up speed again and the sound of slapping flesh and Harry’s desperate grunting fills the room.

Harry’s breath stutters hard and he stills, then a warm wash of fluid fills Draco. He’s so loose and Harry comes so much that he can feel it leaking out of him even before Harry softens, his cock jerking and twitching as he spills, his hands now tender on Draco’s waist. Draco can feel tremors coursing through him as Harry carefully pulls out and then stretches out on top of him for a minute, the long length of him pressed against Draco as his heart slowly returns to a normal speed.

“I should have told you,” Draco finally murmurs, voice muffled, when Harry’s panting winds down. “I quit.”

Harry rolls off him slowly, onto his floor next to Draco. He lays on his back and tilts a sideways glance at him. “You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, I already quit.”

“I sacked you weeks ago,” Harry counters with an edge of tired laughter. “You’re such shit at your job, you never hear me. Which is why I fired you.”

“I’ve been doing such a shitty job because I quit before that; why would I make an effort when I no longer work for you?” Draco rallies.

Harry chuckles. He leans closer and kisses Draco’s mouth, then winces. “God, I’m going to feel this tomorrow.” When Draco opens his mouth to say something smart, Harry shakes his head. “Not as much as you will, _fine._ ” He pauses, then strokes a fingertip down Draco’s spine. “Did I hurt you?”

“It was good,” Draco says simply on a yawn.

“Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

“Fuck you, Harry, I’m sleeping here,” Draco says, closing his eyes. He thinks they need to have an actual discussion about the structure of their relationship, about Draco’s duties and missteps and the transitory nature of Harry’s feelings, but his whole body aches with delicious exhaustion and his mind hasn’t worked right for near an hour.

“Then we’ll sleep here together,” Harry whispers, curling closer to him. And they do.

***

The weather is beginning to get chilly when Draco first gets invited to the Burrow. Harry has been slowly allowing missives from his friends in, redirecting them back from his owl-post box, and Mrs. Weasley’s always end in an invitation for Harry to join them for Sunday supper. Harry claims to want to go, but consistently finds a reason not to, until Mrs. Weasley’s letter which states, _We would love to see you for Sunday dinner if you feel up to it, Harry. And please feel free to bring Draco Malfoy along, should he wish to join you. All my love, Molly._

Draco wonders with mild amusement why she wasn’t placed in Slytherin because as soon as Harry reads it, he cancels his non-existent plans and writes back that he’d be happy to join them this week.

Draco feels like he should say no. Things are already overly-complicated between them without adding family to the mix. He hasn’t managed yet to explain to Harry why they have an end date beyond his declaration that first night that they couldn’t be forever. But every time he tries, Harry looks up at him with that rakish, crooked smile, eyes sparkling; every time he tries, he finds himself flat on his back or stomach, being stroked or licked or fucked until he can barely remember his own name, let alone the idea of leaving the man who dedicates so much energy to making him feel good. It’s as if Harry senses it, and does everything he can to postpone the inevitable.

Or, at least Draco would like to think so. The truth is, he doesn’t _want_ to leave. And yet, he doesn’t see how he could ever stay, not when they were forged from _this_. 

Harry hounds at him—really, he’s very annoying—until Draco goes against common sense and assents to the dinner.

He kisses him fiercely in thanks, followed quickly by clothing being shed where they stand. Gone are the days of slow and sweet now that Harry has two knees on which to prop himself and better control over his hips. The sex is bloody fantastic, but Draco finds himself sometimes thinking wistfully of the other way, the gentle rocking slide as he’d ridden Harry to completion. 

Afterward, Draco absently massages the base of Harry’s spine, and Harry looks over. “We could go to your mum’s, too. If you want.”

Draco forces a smile. He keeps rubbing but says nothing, and after a narrow look, Harry closes his eyes.

On Sunday, Draco dresses to impress. He doesn’t care that it won’t last, doesn’t care that Harry says it’s informal. What he cares about, more than making a good impression as Harry’s—whatever they are—is that this whole family has a reason to loathe him, despite the fact that it’s been twenty years since he fixed that damned cabinet. Harry assures him that it will only be Ron and Hermione, Ron’s parents, and perhaps George, but it’s not as if each of them doesn’t know what happened to the Weasley brother as a result of Draco’s actions. 

The people in Diagon Alley back then hadn’t even known him. They hadn’t even been directly affected by what Draco had done. Neither do the people who still feel it amusing to send the occasional hate-letter to the only Death Eater to never set foot in Azkaban.

Harry laughs when he sees Draco, decked out in semi-formal robes (he’d had to visit the Manor to procure them, but they still fit despite being six years old, and the French cut ensures that they remain in fashion), and Draco sniffs derisively as he takes in Harry’s uniform of t-shirt and jeans, covered by a light, zippered jacket.

“What’s that?” Harry says when he’s done chuckling, nodding to the box in Draco’s hands.

“Hostess gift,” he explains briefly.

Harry’s eyes widen as he studies him. “My god, you’re nervous!” he announces gleefully, as though that’s any sort of surprise.

Draco glares at him. “Do you want me to stay here?”

“Sorry,” he says contritely, and tugs Draco over to the Floo. 

The Weasley house is as unusual on the inside as it is on the outside. Although the decoration is eclectic and cluttered—Draco sees a series of Muggle toasters collected on a far table, at least a dozen of them—and the colour schematic varied, it all takes on a bright russet-orange hue, as though determined to match the distinctive ginger in their hair. It’s the way of old wizarding households, Draco knows, much like the old Muggle saying that people begin to look like their pets. The magic in the walls begins to branch out into the very bones of the architecture to resemble the physical appearance and magical abilities of those who inhabit it. It’s one of the reasons his own ancestral home is filled with various shades of greys and whites, and pulses with dark energy when not taken in hand.

But this home makes him smile upon entering, despite the knot of nerves in his stomach. It has a sort of casual appeal that speaks of closeness and warmth and Draco finds himself charmed and diverted, even as Mrs. Weasley sweeps Harry up into a long hug and exclaims over his prosthetic and how well he looks. He gives her a fond kiss on the cheek and turns to him, and with a start, Draco realises he’s being introduced.

“Hello, Mrs. Weasley,” he says evenly with a cautious smile. 

Her eyes narrow a bit as she inspects him, hands on her ample hips. After a moment, her face creases in a smile. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you at last.”

Draco tries not to cringe, but something must show on his face because she gives a small laugh and says, “Now, now. I simply mean since you’ve begun working with Harry. The past is the past, Draco, I think we can all agree. Please call me Molly.”

Relaxing fractionally, he nods and holds out the gift. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says comfortably as she opens it. “Harry is family, and after what you’ve done for him—my sake, are these Unicorn Breath seedlings?”

Draco nods. “My mother has some in her garden.”

Harry inspects the tiny green shoots with the even smaller white buds that will never close. “What are they?”

“They foster growth in a garden,” Molly explains. “A single seedling, once it matures, will ensure that the plants surrounding it continue to reproduce, and they protect them from undesirable weather year-round. They’re extremely rare.” She looks at Draco again, her eyes unimpressed but still pleased. “Thank you. I have several places I can put these.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he says, feeling a bit faint under her scrutiny. 

“I wonder if Neville has any,” Harry ponders out loud as they follow her to the kitchen. Ron and Hermione are already there, and they stare at his clothing with identical expressions of amusement but—thankfully—don’t say anything. 

“Oh, of course he does,” Mrs. Weasley says, checking something on the stove that is emitting delicious smells. “They’re rare, but any Herbologist worth their salt will have some stores of them.” She waves a hand. “Please, please, take a seat. This is almost ready.”

Harry ushers him onto a long bench at the wooden table and slides next to him just as Ron’s father comes shuffling in, looking distracted. He stops in place as he sees them. “Harry! Was that tonight you were coming?”

“Arthur!” Molly scolds. He gives her a light kiss and she grumbles a bit at his forgetfulness, but smiles nonetheless. Draco’s stomach clenches at their easy, demonstrative affection, so open for anyone to see. 

“Sorry, my dear. Hello, Harry. Draco. I apologise; I’ve been working in my shed.” 

If Draco remembers correctly—he swallows, then asks, “Are you still in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts department, sir?”

Arthur chuckles a bit, and the sound is echoed by everyone else at the table. Confused, Draco looks to Harry but it’s Ron who answers.

“He is. But they had to rename it about ten years ago, because Dad had a bad habit of misusing all of those same artefacts he was supposed to be investigating,” he says, grinning. Arthur looks up at the ceiling innocently. “It’s now the Muggle Artefacts Studies department.”

Draco smiles. That explains the toasters, then. At least, he thinks. “What about when wizards actually do misuse those items?”

“Well, there’s no real way to misuse them, you see,” Ron says as Molly starts serving them bowls of thick, piping-hot stew and crunchy bread. She sits down and spells their water glasses to fill.

“Unless you’re doing something that will break the Statute of Secrecy, or something that will hurt someone,” Hermione interjects, smiling. 

“Right,” Harry adds. “Arthur figured that out a long time ago, but he liked the department so much he was worried they might shut it down. Whenever someone does do something that puts the Statute at risk, it gets kicked over to our div—” he breaks off, face going quiet. “To the Auror division, and they handle it.”

The atmosphere changes, becoming tense and uncomfortable. It seems Ron’s father is the only one who doesn’t notice, because after taking a bite of his stew, he slants Harry a curious glance and says, “Yes, the last time was about two years ago; Harry had the most interesting case involving a wizard who had spelled to life a series of paintings at The National Gallery. He was convinced one of the portraits was a relative of Nicolas Flamel, and could tell him the secret to creating the Philosopher’s Stone. Unfortunately, he wasn’t even clever enough to do it after-hours. They had to Obliviate—how many people, was it?”

“One-hundred and fourteen,” Harry supplies tightly. Draco puts a hand on his forearm, notices Molly eyeing it, and pulls away. Her eyes flick to Harry’s stoic face.

“Draco,” she says abruptly.

“Yes?”

“You work with Muggle clients as well as wizarding ones, don’t you?”

“I do, yes.”

“Really?” Arthur’s head comes up. “Muggles have the most interesting Healing practices and instruments. Tell me,” he says enthusiastically, “Have you ever given or seen stitches? I got them once,” he adds proudly, then glances at his wife and hunches his shoulders a bit. “They didn’t work on me, of course, utterly barbaric really, but I’ve heard they can work very well for Muggles.”

“Um.” Draco tries to gauge the faces around him. Some of the tension has bled from Harry’s expression, and Ron and Hermione look overly-encouraging. Molly seems to waver between allowing her irritation at her husband’s use of Muggle stitches—why on earth would he have tried them?—to show on her face, and looking at Draco in anticipation of an answer. “Well, yes. In getting my Muggle degrees, I had to, for training. And they do help; Muggles obviously can’t rely on magic, so—so, they’ve had to come up with some,” he gives a sidelong glance at Molly, “Barbaric practices, as you said, to keep themselves alive when injured.” He pauses and takes a bite of his stew, which is rich and hearty, with small chunks of beef and thickly cut vegetables. 

“What else to they do?” Arthur says eagerly. 

Even Harry has the beginnings of a smile now. His prosthetic knee bumps into Draco’s under the table as he tucks into his own bowl and waits for Draco to respond. It’s a rather disgusting topic to discuss over a meal, but Draco suddenly feels confident, and lighter than air.

“Well,” he says conspiratorially. “You’ve heard of Muggle video cameras?” Arthur nods. “They can actually use them while operating on the human brain. Any part, really.”

Aghast and fascinated, Arthur leans forward. “Why would they do that?”

“To help them see what they’re doing better,” Draco explains. 

“It’s true,” Hermione says smoothly, taking up the reins. “Do you remember when you toured my parents practice? X-rays and cameras are useful because Muggle doctors are unable to use magic to take a diagnostic.”

She and Arthur devolve into a rapidly spoken conversation about the merits of Muggle versus Wizarding healing, and Draco looks up to see Molly staring at him again. She glances at Harry meaningfully—he’s sitting next to Draco, listening with amusement to the chatter—and then mouths _thank you._

Draco nods, and takes another bite of his stew.

***

“They really liked you,” Harry murmurs, low in Draco’s ear, as they lie tangled together. Draco is sticky all over with fluids, sweat and saliva and spunk, but he no longer has Harry clean it off right away. It’s base and filthy and delicious, particularly knowing that they’ll probably repeat their actions once more before falling asleep. 

“I liked them,” Draco says honestly, dragging his fingers lightly over Harry’s stomach, which flutters in response. “I can see why you fit so well with them.”

“They were the first family I had,” Harry offers after a moment. “It never felt like any real transition; they didn’t know me, and then they did, and suddenly I was part of their family. I’m not even sure when it happened. Second year, maybe. Possibly before; Molly knitted me a Weasley jumper for my first Christmas at Hogwarts.”

“Mmm. She’s rather extraordinary. Knitting, cooking, raising a gaggle of ginger children, and killing Auntie Bella. I really should thank her for that last one,” he says thoughtfully, and Harry’s chest rumbles with quiet laughter.

“She fields thanks for that all the time, honestly,” Harry says, sounding amused. “For a while it got so we couldn’t go into Diagon Alley together; the crowds got too big. Things have eased off a lot in the last several years, but it’s amazing what people remember about the war. Still. After all this time.”

Draco feels cold suddenly. His hand stills on Harry’s stomach. “I’m aware.” He clears his throat, searching for something innocuous to say. “Arthur seems nice. A bit—” 

“Unfocused?” Harry supplies, when Draco can’t think of a word to describe the man. But unfocused is good enough, and he nods. “Yeah. He’s a really good dad, though. He just loves all things Muggle. One birthday I just got him a pile of children’s stickers and some regular tape. Another time I got him a do-it-yourself bookshelf. It took him two weeks and collapsed within a day, but he still says it was one of his best presents, ever.” He pauses. “You know, I got a letter from Teddy the other day. My godson? He’s going to be visiting Andromeda in a few weeks and—”

“No.” The word comes out flat and implacable, even surprising to Draco in its emphasis.

“Why not? It’s just a lunch.” Harry persists, voice gaining a hard quality to it. “They’re your family, too.”

“I know,” Draco tells him, pushing away and sitting up. “I know they’re my family. I can list every Malfoy and Black descendant for the last five hundred years; the last seven, if I take my time. You don’t need to tell me who my family is.”

Harry’s jaw flexes. “Is it because of me? Because you don’t want to take me to see your mother? Your mother likes me, you know. We exchanged a few letters after the War.”

Draco wasn’t aware of that, but it doesn’t change anything. “It’s your assumption that we can swan off to each other’s families without bothering to look at it from a different perspective.”

“Fine.” Harry folds his arms over his naked chest. “What other perspectives do I need?”

“You think that because your life after the war was great, everything else fell into line?” Draco grabs for his wand and spells himself clean. As an afterthought, he does Harry too. “It’s _because_ they’re my family that they want nothing to do with me. With my mother.”

“What?” Dropping his arms, Harry’s expression shifts from angry to confused. “What do you mean, they want nothing to do with you?”

“My mother wrote them,” Draco clips out, refusing to waver under the assault of memories. “My mother wrote to Andromeda after the trials, asking if things could be repaired.” He lifts a sardonic eyebrow at Harry’s nonplussed face. “I suppose Andromeda never mentioned this to you?”

“No,” he says bleakly. “She refused?”

“Did you manage to forget who killed her daughter?” Draco’s anger abruptly bleeds away, and he scrubs a tired hand over his face. Twenty fucking years and it’s never far enough away. “My mother worked actively with Bellatrix until the end of the war, when she saw it was becoming too dangerous for me. Andromeda wrote to her refusing to meet. It’s reasonable, I suppose. But if you think I’ll be welcome—that there’s any part of us that makes sense—Harry, you have to understand—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“When do we talk to each other about these things?” Draco shoots back wearily.

Harry draws out a long exhale. “You’re using that as an excuse.”

“I’m not,” Draco insists, wondering if he’s right. He takes a deep breath. “It’s been over a month since we achieved the goals set in place by my contract. In all seriousness, I should have vacated the night of your first broom ride. You need to come to terms with—”

Harry cuts him off with a kiss, deep and hard and possessing, gathering Draco up in his arms. “I don’t want to come to terms,” he says. “I don’t want you to say it.”

“I have to. We have to,” Draco says, pulling back. “We all walk on fucking eggshells around you, as though you’re going to fall apart. You won’t even talk about going into the Ministry—you won’t tell me about—”

“What then?” Harry shouts, loud and startling. “What? What do you need to know? What do you need me to do? What? Will you tell me your secrets then? Will that fix everything?”

“I have no secrets,” Draco says shakily. “And likely not.”

Harry stares at him stonily. “Why have you never told me Doctor Marsh wants you to work with him in Scotland? Why don’t you ever take him up on it? What are you so afraid of?” He clenches his hands into fists as if to keep himself from reaching out. “Why am I the only man—why have you never— _how_? And how can you pretend that’s not important?”

Swallowing hard against the sour taste in his throat, Draco presses a hand to his chest. His heart feels as though it’s trying to rattle out of his ribcage. “I—we—”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment, giving a ragged sigh. He curses under his breath, seeming to steel himself, and then grabs his wand. “You want to know about me, Draco? Accio vial.” A small glass vial flies into his hand. Harry unstoppers it and holds his wand up to his temple, extracting a shining silver-blue memory, then directs it into the vial before stoppering it up. He looks at Draco with a grim sort of challenge and thrusts it at him. “Cabinet in the corner.”

Draco looks down at the swirling, glowing memory in disbelief. He wants to refuse, but Harry’s face brooks no argument. Draco gets up on unsteady legs and walks naked over the cabinet where Harry keeps books. Harry waves his wand and a hidden chamber in the side unlocks, the door sweeping open. There are about a dozen small vials there, each alive with moving light, suspended in place over a small Pensieve, about the size of his head. He looks at Harry questioningly.

“You only need to dip your fingers in it,” Harry instructs in a dead voice.

Draco uncaps the vial and pours it in to the water. He hesitates, looking at Harry, but the other man won’t meet his eyes. He dips in his fingers.

The room swirls and disappears around him. Pulsing lights and a dark, congested room materialize, almost drowned out by the beat of the base. A man he doesn’t recognise heads to the bar and orders a drink, surveying the crowd. He looks relaxed, loose, deliberate and delectable, and Draco realises that it’s Harry, who’s done something to disguise his face. It’s subtle, a change in the hair colour, the cheekbones. The bridge of his nose. Just enough to hide if someone doesn’t know him well. But it’s him. The Harry before he got hurt. Draco drinks him in, this man he’d never gotten to know before he’d been so changed by tragedy—again. 

He sips his drink, laughing to himself, before something catches his eye. Downing the rest of it, he heads through the cluster of dancers, and makes his way over to a slender young man with shocking white-blond hair. Draco feels lost for a moment; the resemblance is not uncanny, but it is undeniable; the colouring, the shared body-type. He’s more willowy than Draco is now, who has filled out in the shoulders over the last two decades, and the other man can’t be more than twenty-five, but he seems pleased with Harry’s attention, After a few minutes of obscene dancing, they head away. The room swirls around Draco again, taking him to a small cubby-like space where Harry is snogging the stranger, rapture and relief on his face all at once. Then Harry gets a summons and disengages himself, heading out of the club. He changes his face back to his own and Apparates to the scene of the crime.

The scene dissolves and renews again, and Draco finds himself inside a house. Harry looks gleeful, dancing gracefully as he casts curses toward a madly screeching witch. He throws up a protective shield over an Auror on scene, but it somehow comes up soft, disjointed, and the vaguely-familiar woman goes down. 

He follows Harry up the stairs, barely able to breathe at the sight of the little girl who must have died. There’s already so much blood covering her, Draco is amazed she has not already bled out from her wounds and his eyes grow hot and aching at the care with which Harry transports her, transfers her to Ron. 

And then there’s the moment he’s been dreading: Harry moves away a bit unsteadily. He lags as if sensing something, and looks at Ron with stark eyes before leaping in front of the jet of scarlet light racing toward him, waving his wand in a wild arc. Draco sees what Harry must not have processed at the time; his flesh being sliced open, the tearing of bones, the blood spurting from his femoral artery as Ron falls over and the little girl in his clasp gives a jerk and then goes still.

Draco wants to vomit. The scene freezes around him, an ugly, terrifying reminder of what Harry went through. But his mind is whirring; Harry is aware that he already knows the facts of the case. Does he want him to see his sacrifice? His instinct?

Slowly, Draco steps back. The scene replays as if on command; Harry’s soft shield spell, something he was known to have an affinity for at Hogwarts. His unsteady walk. His panicked leap and slow strike when he could have lifted his wand without moving, if he’d been thinking straight. If he’d been thinking at all.

Draco moves further back and the scene dissolves to the club again, to the boy with the platinum hair on the dance floor. To Harry, watching him from the bar. To Harry, swallowing his whole drink in two long gulps.

Then the scene is speeding up again, to the frantic pace of Draco’s heart. The drink, the interlude, the Apparition, the house, the curse. In real time, it must have taken less than twenty minutes. Which is enough for alcohol to hit the bloodstream. And nowhere in there does he see Harry performing a sobering charm.

He pulls his hand out of the water.

“Did you see?” Harry croaks out. He’s sitting on the bed, facing away from Draco. His head is bowed.

“You were drunk.” There’s no way to say it but bluntly. 

Harry shakes his head. “No. It was one drink. But it was strong. I wasn’t drunk. But I wasn’t completely sober, either.”

“Did you have a drinking problem?” Draco asks. “Before?”

“No. I’ve never let myself get distracted on the job before. Ever.” He makes a small, choking sound. 

Pity wells up inside of Draco; for the girl who died, for Ron. For Harry, carrying this with himself. Harry, who has always taken responsibility for the whole world. Harry, who has been trained to think that, in some regards, he must remain perfect. He must save everyone.

Draco pauses, carefully choosing his words. He walks back over to the bed and sits next to Harry. “She died within moments, Harry. They wouldn’t have been able to save her. Surely you know that.”

“I know.”

Surprised, Draco looks at him. “You do?”

“It doesn’t help. Knowing. Because miracles happen. Magic happens. There are ways,” he says. He looks up at Draco, exhaustion etched over his features, eyes shadowed. “There are ways.”

Draco represses a shiver. “Old, Dark ways. You never would have—”

“Why don’t you hate me for it?” Harry interjects. “Why are you sitting here?”

“Because you need me here,” Draco says, the words springing forth without thought, and Harry gives a small groan. He leans sideways, and their bare shoulders touch. “This is why you’ve been avoiding the Ministry.”

Harry’s throat works silently for a moment. Then, “I loved my job. But that night—I actively put people in danger. Susan could have died because I wasn’t quick enough; Ron too. And I don’t even know if I still could—do what’s required of me, with my leg. With my limp.”

“You don’t get into a wand-duel with your leg, Harry.”

Harry gives him a humourless smile. “I’ll go tomorrow. I’ll go.”

“Go when you’re ready,” Draco advises softly. 

“I want you to answer my questions, too,” Harry says slowly. He lowers his head again, and Draco’s breath catches. He leans into the press of Harry’s shoulder for a moment.

“Ask them again. Later,” he says. “For now, let’s go to bed.”

Harry doesn’t argue, he allows Draco to remove his prosthetic, then clumsily climbs under the covers, rolling away so that Draco is staring at his back. Draco looks at him for a moment, so solitary; it’s the way he always has been, in some respects, Draco supposes. He considers for a moment and then scoots closer until he’s lying flush against Harry’s back. He slips an arm around his waist. 

He doesn’t know how long it is before he starts to drift off, but a quiet voice brings him back to the surface of wakefulness. Harry says, “I could do anything, if you’re with me.”

It’s lovely and horrible, all at once. Soon after, Harry is fast asleep.

Draco stays awake for a long time.

***

Regardless of Draco’s promise to answer Harry’s questions, Harry doesn’t ask and Draco doesn’t remind him. For the following week, they resume the paradigm with which they’ve both become comfortable; they visit the cinema twice and head into Diagon Alley, maintaining an appropriate distance while they visit the apothecary and stop by to talk to George. 

Harry practices with his broom, and takes Draco’s advice in seeing whether he could special-order one. In fact, he fire-calls the president of the Nimbus Racing Broom Company and suggests a line specifically designed with specialized modifications in mind for disabled witches and wizards. The president is delighted to hear from him, delighted at the suggestion, delighted by his request—basically delighted by all things Harry Potter. Draco comes to learn later that they send him their latest brooms for free—he’s long since stopped trying to pay; it became too awkward, he says—and whenever he’s seen flying one, their sales skyrocket. 

One morning, a week after sharing his memories with Draco, he announces he has plans to meet with Kingsley Shacklebolt after lunch. Draco pauses with his coffee halfway to his mouth, then asks if he’ll be back in time for supper, and if he should request for Piddy to make anything specific. Harry smiles and catches a lock of Draco’s hair between his fingers and thumb before bending down and kissing him.

Draco contemplates it after Harry leaves. Their easy affection with one another, something so unexpected it feels like an illusion. He thinks of Molly and Arthur Weasley, who have been together for half a century. He thinks of his mother and his father, dancing in the empty ballroom.

He thinks of Harry’s sombre statement before falling asleep.

Harry needs him as much as Draco allows these days, which should have stopped months ago, if he’s honest with himself. Aging Slytherin that he is, it’s been easier not to be. Harry is walking now, flying, fucking, and soon he’ll be working, too. 

The thought brings an acrid taste to his mouth, and he swallows against it.

He Summons his files and gets to work.

***

Counterpoint: Harry

Draco doesn’t leave him.

Harry is forced to the conclusion that the man who lays next to him at night, the man who gasps and arches into him as if there’s nothing better in the world, the man who fucking _healed_ him, after an impossible injury, is one of the only people to have seen him at all of his darkest moments. _Sectumsempra_ , the Battle of Hogwarts, his depression, his memories of That Night. Draco knows him, thoroughly. And instead of walking out in disgust, he holds Harry close, and breathes quietly into the back of his neck, and comforts him.

His family likes Draco, too, and he knows that if given the chance, Narcissa will take to him like a Kneazle to cream. They haven’t written in years—Harry’s life had gotten too hurried and complicated to carry on a regular correspondence—but they had exchanged pleasantries on parchment for a while after the War. If he remembers correctly, she’d even sent him a box of truffles when he’d been laid up at St. Mungo’s after his third case when a random curse had burned the skin off his arm. It had been hidden amongst the overwhelming pile of presents, and he’d dashed off a quick thank-you note, to which she’d responded with her well wishes. 

And he can talk to Andromeda, find out what’s going on there. Now that Teddy is out of school, it’s not strictly necessary that Andromeda and Narcissa interact, but Draco loves his mother with a complex, abiding sort of affection that will make it difficult for him to be around someone so important in Harry’s life who opposes her, even peripherally. 

Draco is there the following morning, and the one after that, raising pale eyebrows when Harry begins practicing on one of his brooms, and making wry comments about his fame when he fire-calls the president of Nimbus and is patched through immediately. He’s there in Diagon Alley, when Harry is swamped with excited strangers who exclaim over his new leg and ask intrusive questions and give him insulting compliments on how much better he looks now than he did in those pictures a reporter from the _Prophet_ snuck into his hospital room to take. He observes from a slight distance as Harry deals with it in the only way he knows how, now; with gentle flattery and deflection and feigning ignorance. And when the crowds depart, Draco is still waiting.

He’s there at night, too, letting Harry fuck into him mercilessly, eyes bright as polished silver as he twists into Harry’s arms and kisses him until his lips are swollen and chapped. And he wonders that he never felt this, not even with Ginny, this all-encompassing _need_ to be with someone, to belong to them, to possess them in every way. 

He sends an owl to Kingsley, who responds almost immediately, scheduling an appointment that very day. When he tells Draco about it, Draco regards him with a thoughtful smile but doesn’t comment because he knows what this step means; Harry is ready to take back his life, now. A life that Draco ensured he could have.

He walks through the Ministry as quickly as he can. His right leg still drags quite a bit when he hurries, but it’s easier to ignore than the gasps of astonishment he elicits from people as he passes through the different departments on the way to the Minister’s office. His assistant, Evelyn, smiles widely when she sees him, but simply gestures at the door, indicating that Kingsley is waiting for him. He’s always liked her; she never makes a fuss.

He heads into the office. It’s long been decorated in pale creams and rich browns and golds; comforting colours, rather than the more intimidating grey and navy and cherry wood décor favoured by his predecessor. 

Kingsley stands upon his entrance and offers his hand, which Harry shakes. He looks good for his age, his ebony skin glowing and mostly smooth, his white teeth flashing as he smiles and asks Harry to take a seat. When Harry does so, Kingsley sits back down and steeples his fingers together.

“I was surprised to get your letter, Harry,” he says after a moment of comfortable silence. His voice is quietly resonant. “I’ve sent you owls.”

Harry tugs on his earlobe. “I’ve been re-directing my owls for a while, now.”

Kingsley’s mouth draws down in a thoughtful little frown. “Still. I would have thought you’d keep us apprised of your recovery, so that we would be able to have a timeline for you to return.” He pauses and tilts his head. The small gold hoop in his ear gleams. “I assume that’s why you wanted to meet today?”

“I wanted to—discuss it, yes,” Harry says, unable to commit himself further. 

Kingsley looks at him for a few moments, and Harry tries not to shift uneasily under his pensive consideration. “You’ve been out of the field for nearly two years now. You’d need to be recertified—”

“I know.”

“And physically examined—”

“I assumed.”

“And psychologically evaluated, as well,” Kingsley continues smoothly. 

Harry pauses. “Is that essential?”

“You know it is, Harry,” the Minister says evenly. “Whenever an Auror takes an extended leave of absence, for whatever reason. We have to ensure the safety of the public they protect upon their return.”

He feels as though he’s been _Stupefied._ Still, he finds it somewhere in himself to nod gamely. “All right. I’d consent to that.”

The corners of Kingsley’s mouth edge upward. “Then I don’t see why we can’t have you reinstated within the next month.” Harry can feel his face drain of colour, becoming cold. He tries to smile, and the other man leans forward, suddenly embarrassingly concerned. “Unless you need longer, of course.”

Harry swallows several different explanations that want to pop out of his mouth. He picks the simplest one. “I—just, I can’t Apparate. With this,” he says, gesturing to his leg. “It causes bone Splinching. And I do have an order in for a broom that will help, because I’m not fully steady in my seat again yet, but…” He trails off helplessly.

“I see.” Frowning, Kingsley’s gaze drifts past Harry’s shoulder, becoming unfocussed as he thinks this over. “Apparition is a requirement for Aurors.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not safe, Harry, to be unable to escape a risky situation. Or to be unable to respond quickly to a developing one.”

Harry clears his throat. “I thought—maybe, if I was assigned to cases where Apparition was unnecessary.”

“They all require field work.”

“Yes, I know,” Harry says impatiently. “But if I had my Portkey on me—”

Kingsley’s shining black eyes become piercing. “That’s not always a guarantee. As you well know,” he adds gently, and Harry finds himself blinking hard. Kingsley takes a deep breath. “Would you consider replacing your prosthetic with a standard issue one? Made of wood? We could imbibe it with a core, like with wands, to make it more responsive to your commands. It’s what Moody had.”

Harry directs a miserable glance down at his knee. He stretches his right leg out slightly, watching the drape of fabric outline his new limb, examining his foot as he rotates the ankle. Now he has to choose between being able to feel his body and being able to do his job? 

And yet, he always knew it would come to this. He’d just hoped—

“Is there anything else I could do?”

“I don’t think you’d be pleased with a desk job, Harry. Would you?” Kingsley asks, as if he’s hoping he’s wrong. 

Harry shakes his head slowly. He likes the adrenaline, the spell casting. He likes helping people directly. Interacting with them. 

“Are you sure? We could work out a transfer,” Kingsley offers, thinking aloud. “You get a lot of press for your physical prowess and ability to fight Dark Magic, but you actually solve the cases with your mind, which I think we both know doesn’t get enough credit. You’re very clever.”

“I’m an Auror,” Harry tells him. “Not a bureaucrat.” 

Kingsley smiles faintly. “I like to think I know you better than to ever suggest that. But what about an Unspeakable? A Curse Breaker? They, too, are high risk jobs, but much of them are done within the confines of the Ministry. Apparition isn’t a prerequisite for belonging to those departments; when you leave the grounds, the Floo or a broom are options that work just as well.”

Harry grimaces. The Unspeakables are a group of solitary individuals, most of whom don’t have families, either by choice or because the secretive nature of their jobs doesn’t allow for real intimacy. He’s worked with two Aurors who’ve been involved in acrimonious divorces with wizards in that department. He thinks of Curse Breaking for a moment, which appeals more, but Ron was always the one who was good with puzzles, whose logical nature could see through maze of angles to find the outcome. Still, it’s not as though he’s unable to do that. Only— “Don’t curse breakers need N.E.W.T’s in Arithmancy and Runes?”

“You could make that up,” Kingsley says with ill-concealed amusement. 

“I was pants at Arithmancy,” Harry admits. “I doubt I’d be any better at it after twenty years, when I’ve forgotten nearly everything I learned in sixth year.”

“You were a bit busy back then. I think it’s understandable you don’t remember,” Kingsley says dryly.

Harry cracks an unwilling smile.

“There’s always instruction,” Kingsley suggests. “Williams is set to retire in a year or two. He’s been using up his accrued leave time lately. Sod has barely taken a vacation in the last fifteen years. You could take over on a part-time basis. Work on evaluating and interviewing new recruits when he’s on duty.”

Teaching. Harry reflects on this for a moment. He’d enjoyed teaching the D.A, enjoyed training with the younger Aurors when they began their rotations. He knows all of the procedures, all of curses and counter-curses most required, and all of the ones rarely used but sporadically essential. 

He looks down at the scar that lingers on his hand, faded and barely visible. Teaching, when done right, can be as powerful a thing as when done wrong.

“When can I start?” he asks.

***

When Harry tumbles through the Floo hours later, he’s feeling almost _happy,_ if one could call it that.

Draco will be pleased that he’s making an effort to move on with his life. It’s not law enforcement, but the job is adjacent enough that Harry thinks the transition won’t be so difficult. He’s a little disappointed at the idea of not working with Ron day in and day out, but that tingle of regret is washed away in the tide of relief about the same matter. 

After accepting the position, Kingsley had fire-called down to the personnel offices to explain that he was sending Harry down, so Harry had gone right then. After making an appointment for medical and psych evaluations, the girl behind the counter explained that instructors don’t need Auror certification, but that they get paid more if they have one. Harry blinked down at the pay-packet for the position, and she cleared her throat awkwardly. She seemed a shy sort, and looked bewildered at having to talk to Harry Potter about his finances. 

“Minister Shacklebolt said to start you at the highest earning scale for Auror instructors,” she said with a blush, tapping her wand over the figures on the parchment, which melted away to something slightly—very slightly—more satisfactory. It would be a pittance compared to what he used to make, but his ego never required a high paycheque, and anyway, he already had far more gold than he could ever spend. “He said to let you know that even though it’s the top rate, there will be increases every six months for the first five years and every year after that, so—”

“It’s fine.”

He’d spent the rest of the afternoon filling out paperwork and—what the hell—making an appointment for three days hence to become re-certified. 

By the time he’s dusting Floo powder off of his trousers, he’s exhausted, his legs and hips ache, and he’s more than ready for the dinner Draco mentioned. His house smells like richly spiced roast beef, but his sitting room and kitchen are empty and dark, and he walks through the first storey of his home feeling vaguely unsettled.

“Draco?”

There’s a quick rustling down the hall off the sitting room and he heads toward his study, where light spills from under the doorway.

Draco is sitting at his long-unused desk, gathering papers and calmly setting them back inside a manila file. He throws Harry a half-smile. 

“Sorry, I only noticed it’d gotten dark when I heard your voice. Dinner should be ready, if you’re hungry.” He taps the file’s edge on the desk to straighten the papers within it. 

He looks good, Harry notes, like this. Surrounded by heavy, dark furniture, and papers and books. Sitting in Harry’s leather desk chair, wearing his thin, silver, reading glasses. He removes them even before Harry is done thinking it and stands. 

“What are those?” he asks, nodding toward the stack of files on the desk, identical to the one Draco lays carefully on top. 

Draco pauses. “Case files.”

Confused, Harry looks at him. “Did Kingsley—” A sick sense of understanding clicks inside him. “Medical files? Patient files?”

Draco sighs. “Yes.”

Harry’s whole body feels like it’s shaking along with the staccato rhythm of his heart, but when he looks down at his hands, they’re remarkably steady. He curls them into fists to keep them that way, and strives to keep a level tone. “Are you looking at jobs?”

Draco meets his eyes, no equivocating. “Yes.”

Swallowing, Harry turns away. “We should eat.”

He hears Draco follow him to the kitchen, where Piddy has put out dinner. Each plate is covered with a protective bubble and charmed to stay hot. Harry grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge and sits down, puncturing the bubble with his fork. Draco Summons a glass from the cabinet, fills it with water from his wand, and copies him. They remain silent for a few minutes, though the food tastes like ash in Harry’s mouth. Then Draco sets his fork aside and fiddles with his water glass for a moment.

“I accepted a position instructing Aurors today at the Ministry,” Harry says before Draco can speak. “I—can’t work, the way I used to, not without being able to Apparate. I’ve been hoping I could, that maybe they’d make some sort of exception, but it’d be too dangerous. For me and the people I was trying to protect. So, Kingsley thought—teaching. And I accepted. I thought you’d be pleased.” He doesn’t want it to sound like an entreaty, but it is one.

“I am, Harry,” Draco says slowly, grey eyes still steady on his glass. “If you are.”

“I’m a good teacher. I’ve been told. And I could—adjust. And maybe Doctor Marsh, in a few years, will figure out how to allow for Apparition,” he says. He takes a long swallow of his beer. 

“Maybe,” Draco echoes. His voice sounds hollow.

“You never told me why you didn’t accept a position there. You never told me—”

“I was going to,” Draco says, finally looking up. “Tonight. I thought we’d talk about it tonight.” He takes a deep breath. “I decided, a long time ago, not to live anywhere I’d be easily recognised. Where the Dark Mark would be. Scotland is—Doctor Marsh’s facility is about ten miles from Hogsmeade.”

“You like research. You like learning things,” Harry points out, voice going quiet. “You’d be working with patients.”

“I know. I prefer to keep moving.”

“And that’s what you’re doing now? Moving? Or are you moving on?”

“Both.” His cheeks flush, and his tone becomes tinged with distress. “You don’t know, Harry. I’ve tried to explain it. Or maybe not, maybe not well enough. I still—people still send things. About me. About the War. And I’m not afraid of them, if that’s what you’re going to say,” he adds, lifting his chin. “But I don’t trust that their interest in my mother wouldn’t resume were I to move back here. I don’t even _like_ it here.”

“We’ve been out in public dozens of times. Wizarding public, even,” Harry says. “England is your home.”

“England spat on me and closed its doors to me and formed a mob that tried to kill me. When I was _eighteen years old_ , Harry. England can _fuck_ itself,” Draco snaps out, coldly furious.

Harry stills. He didn’t know; doesn’t know how to respond. They’d hunted down the remaining Death Eaters after the trials, and there had been news coverage for months about each one, about how Harry was fighting for the public, still. About the walls of Azkaban, eager for a new resident. But never about the one Death Eater who’d been pardoned. Harry’s testimony had been enough to procure discretion from the press, mostly because they likely hadn’t known how to slant an article about someone who had done so many awful things; who had also been so strenuously defended by their Saviour, when Harry’s star had been flying at the highest it had ever been.

“They don’t anymore,” Harry says after a moment. “And, anyway, I never did.”

“They don’t because I’m working with you, for you,” Draco says. “Can you imagine the uproar if they suspected anything more? I’ve worked bloody hard to get to the place I’m at, Harry. I won’t give it up for—for—”

“For what?” Harry asks softly. His mouth feels dry. “For me? For love? What?”

“We never said that,” Draco mumbles, sounding guilty.

Wrath rises, hot and intoxicating. “Yes, we did. I tried. You just don’t want to hear it. You don’t want to face that I’m in love with you, and that you have a reason to stay and face what you’ve spent twenty years running from.”

Draco’s eyes flash at him. He pushes his chair up and stands. “I don’t want to face it because it’s _not true_. You’re the most classic case of transference I’ve ever seen,” he spits out cruelly, and Harry flinches, even as he rises from his seat and begins advancing on Draco, who backs away. “And I knew, I _knew_ nothing should happen between us, I _knew_ it. I knew I was taking advantage and I did it anyway.”

“Why?” Harry mutters, closer still. “You had a reason. Why?”

“You _know_ the reason. Because I _wanted_ you! I’ve _always_ wanted you! Even when we hated each other. And the intimacy is easy—even for Healers—to become confused by.” Draco falls silent, breathing hard. He’s backed himself against the counter.

“ _Fuck_ that,” Harry snarls. “You’re in love with me, too.”

“Whatever I think I feel doesn’t _matter_ ,” Draco bellows at him as Harry’s hands trap him on either side. He smacks his hand to the middle of Harry’s chest and shoves him back. Harry allows the slight distance, anger and confusion making him desperate for some answers. “And neither do your feelings. It can never be—equal, between us. We could never relate to each other apart from this.”

“Why should we have to?”

“You shouldn’t feel like you love me out of gratitude, out of _need_.” Draco lets go of a shaky breath. “That’s not how things work. It would—everything would always be off. We would never—we’d resent each other, or you’d feel like I was necessary to live your life—”

“That’s the way you feel about the people you love.”

“Not when it starts like this,” Draco says. 

“Is this why? Why you never fucked John? Why you didn’t fuck anyone else?” Harry asks spitefully, but rather than offending him, his words seem to be calming Draco down.

“I never fucked him because he was physically incapable of penetrative sex. We were young and we had a great sex life for all of that,” Draco says, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “I never said I hadn’t gotten emotionally involved with you, Harry, which is why I let it go so far and why I never have before. But emotions are deceiving. You’ll get over this, once I’m gone. I will, as well. Circumstances dictate how we view things, and circumstances change. And I need to pack.”

It’s as if explosions detonate in Harry’s brain as Draco tries to step past him. He grabs the other man, crashing a kiss down onto his mouth, in the reckoning long-overdue. He expects Draco to fight him, to resist him, but he doesn’t; he draws Harry closer as they stumble backwards until Draco’s tailbone bumps hard against the lip of the counter again. Draco tries to temper his kiss with softness, but Harry won’t allow it, forcing a frantic moan from Draco’s throat as he shoves a hand between him and grips his cock with force. 

“Take me upstairs,” Draco says raggedly as Harry scrapes his teeth over the stubble on his throat. “Let me ride you. Let me take you to bed.”

“Here,” Harry says hoarsely. He’s gotten Draco’s trousers down, and he jerks at his prick in quick, rough strokes. “Turn around.”

Draco’s eyes go blurry and wild, and he does what Harry says, leaning over the counter with his trousers and pants pooled around his feet. Harry casts a lubrication charm and works Draco open—it’s easy, they spent hours in bed that morning before getting up—with two fast fingers, then three. Draco drops his head down, canting his hips back as Harry’s fingers disappear inside of him where it’s warm and wet and dark and tight.

Blood boiling, Harry withdraws his fingers and tears open his own flies, pulling his trousers down just far enough that his cock springs free, thick and heavy. He slaps at Draco’s swollen hole with it, gripping one side of his arse to keep him open, and then shoves in hard, sliding down to the hilt with one smooth motion. Draco groans, fingers scrabbling at the countertop, as the heat of his arse threatens to drive Harry completely mad as he fucks into him. Draco takes his rigid shaft with ease, even as he emits small, needy little noises as if he’s not getting enough. So Harry gives him more, grinding his cock in, his own arse clenching as he swirls his hips and reaches around to stroke Draco’s cock again. Draco comes quickly over Harry’s hand, throwing his head back on a groan, and Harry comes too, spurting hard inside the other man, not even bothering to thrust because it feels so good with the entire length of him being massaged as Draco’s arsehole tightens convulsively around him. 

Harry leans on him for a moment, panting and sweaty and vaguely horrified at his lack of control as his brain comes back to him. He pulls out, casts a wandless charm over both of them, and swallows.

“You—you wanted that, didn’t you?”

Draco doesn’t answer for a moment. He reaches down and pulls his trousers up, then turns around. “Yes.” His face, so full of life and desire only moments ago, is impassive now. “But I think it’s indicative of what I’ve been saying.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, sure he doesn’t want an answer.

“You wouldn’t let me take you up to bed. You had to exert control over me _now_ , had to have me _here_.” Something flickers in his eyes, and he slides them away before Harry can figure out what it is. “You haven’t let me—do it the other way since you got your leg back.”

Harry doesn’t know whether to feel offended or appalled. Mostly, he just feels the heavy blanket of sadness settle over him. “You’ve never complained.”

“I’ve never wanted to.” Draco gives him a mocking smile. “The sex has been spectacular. But whenever I’ve initiated it in a different manner, it somehow always segues into this.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Harry asks, exhausted and bewildered. 

“It’s control, Harry,” Draco says, sounding tired. “There’s always going to be a part of you that pushes back against me because, while you’re grateful, I’ve been the one who had the control in the beginning. It’s exactly the reason why relationships like this don’t work.”

“I just—I just _like_ that kind of sex.”

“You like all sex,” Draco says, and Harry snorts humourlessly. “It’s not about the sex. I like it, too. It’s everything else. I can’t hold you up, Harry. Not now that you’ve learned how to walk again. You want me for that, but it’s not something I can do.” 

Draco’s calm, unequivocal tone makes Harry feel cold. He realises he’s leaning against his kitchen table with his cock still hanging out of his trousers. He carefully tucks it back in and looks back up. “I don’t think you’ll believe me if I tell you that’s not true. Not entirely. Not even mostly.” He feels abruptly, shamefully helpless in the face of Draco’s certainty. “But you won’t reconsider?” When Draco shakes his head, Harry sucks in a sharp breath. He feels near tears but for some reason they won't fall. “Will you at least stay the night?”

Draco hesitates. “Yes. I’ll stay the night.”

In bed, Draco allows Harry to hold him. Harry smells the sharp lemon scent of his hair. “What if we had met and fallen in love another way?” he asks quietly. “Would you have given me a chance, then? Would you have stayed?”

Draco doesn’t answer, but nestles back, closer into Harry’s body. 

When Harry wakes up, Draco is gone.


	9. Reconstruction

“Were you this awful in school?” Sophie sneers.

Draco raises his eyebrows with a snort. “Because you’re such a delight to be around. And anyway, I was much worse, I assure you. I’m going to lift higher, now.”

“It’s not like I can tell,” she mutters, her face going blank. She tilts her head to the side as Draco lifts her leg a bit higher, one hand clasped around her hip to jostle the joint.

He likes Sophie, quite a bit. Despite being assured by her parents that she’s a _lovely child, really_ , she’s actually quite a snotty little bitch; exceptionally so, even for a teenager. She reminds him of Pansy, in her element. So he responds to her in kind, insult for insult, and she pretends not to enjoy it.

She wasn’t his first choice of client. There was a wizard in New Zealand; a pureblood in whom a generational curse had taken hold. He was able to walk sporadically, but the nerves in his spine were slowly being crushed by the force of the Blood Magic, which hadn’t reared its head in over two hundred years. Although unable to afford even a fraction of Draco’s fees, the job is too perfect to pass up. Unfortunately, he was in the first stages of his treatment, and wouldn’t need Draco’s help for another few months. 

His mother, uncharacteristically, had helped him go over his files eleven weeks prior when he’d fled Harry’s house in the middle of the night. She hadn’t even made him discuss it, and when he’d caught his stark reflection in the mirror, he’d understood why. She’d pointed out Sophie’s file; Sophie had fallen from a broom in a remote location. She was with her friends, all fifteen and too young to Apparate for help, and so hadn’t received the required medical care for hours. It’s a short-term job but by the time he’s finished, he’ll be able to head to New Zealand immediately. His current job is in Nice, so close to his apartment that he can visit it for a bit whenever Sophie is being particularly trying. 

There’s no chance she’ll ever walk again, but all of her scans and diagnostics indicate that with enough therapy, she’ll be able to regain some sensory function below the waist.

“What do you mean?” she mumbles now, her eyes still closed. The most he ever gets out of her is during flexibility training, when she wants to pretend that there aren’t hands on her that she can’t feel. “How were you worse than me? That’s insulting. You probably couldn’t find your way out of the library.”

Draco laughs outright, and she blinks her eyes open in surprise. 

“I’ll have you know there was no part of my school I didn’t traverse,” he says lightly, ignoring the pang in his stomach. She works harder when provoked and distracted. “As if your little escapades with your friends, sneaking out with your brooms, can compare.”

She scowls. “Right. Name one bad thing you did.” Unwillingly, Draco’s eyes flick to his forearm, where his Dark Mark stands out in a blur of black and grey. She follows his gaze and gives a mean laugh. “You got a tattoo? Really? That’s it?”

Her parents know, of course. Her mother, Elizabeth, commented on it gently during their interview; though she had moved away from England before the war, she’d had an uncle at the Ministry who’d been Imperiused. She was rather blasé about the whole thing, really, saying only, “I remember reading about the Trials back then. But it’s been twenty years, Mr. Malfoy—we have no plans to hold your past against you. And we’re incredibly impressed with the work you’ve done.” 

It happened occasionally; that surprising, overwhelming kindness. 

“Yes,” he snaps at Sophie now. “I got a tattoo.”

Her face takes on a chastised cast. “What’s the big deal about that?” she asks, backpedalling.

Draco smirks. He doesn’t know whether it would terrify or fascinate her, or which would be better for that matter, so he simply says, “You have a library. Look it up.”

“Fucking swot,” she mumbles, and Draco laughs again, good mood restored.

“The studying I did was less about receiving good marks and more about… Well. If you’d like to know, look it up,” he says again. He pauses. “Or you could repay me with a little effort, here. Quid pro quo?”

She glares at him. “What’ll I get?”

“Details.”

She debates for a moment, chewing on her lower lip as Draco flexes her left foot and twists her ankle. Then, “I felt something on my hip when you were working on it.”

“Tingling, or pressure?”

“First, you.”

Draco narrows his eyes. “You know of Hogwarts?”

“Of course,” she scoffs. Before her injury, she’d been enrolled at Beauxbatons.

“Well, that’s where I went to school.”

“You’re forty.”

“I’m thirty-six!” he objects, appalled and then equally surprised when she giggles. “And what does my age have to do with it? Now you. Anything?” He presses his fingers over the arch of her foot.

“It has to do with when you went there. I’m not a complete idiot, you know,” she says with a sniff. “The War happened back then. I can’t feel that.”

He presses deeper. “Yes, it did.”

“And you were involved somehow?” she asks shrewdly. “But you’re so—pale.”

“Tingling or pressure?” he reminds her.

Sophie sighs, looking at him calculatingly. “Tingling.” She licks her lips. “So if you’re thirty-six, and you were _somehow_ involved in the war, and you went to Hogwarts...” Her eyes brighten fractionally. “Does that mean you knew—”

Fuck. Draco braces himself.

“—Ron Weasley?”

Shock makes him drop her foot as he laughs. And continues to laugh for a full minute while she looks at him in confused silence.

“Why—why Weasley?” he finally gets out.

Her face reddens, and she gives an awkward shrug, her shoulders flat against the table. “I don’t know. Except that he’s a bit—well, a bit fit, right? Maybe I noticed him in the papers, a while back,” she admits vaguely, like it doesn’t matter at all, like Draco won’t see the way her hands find each other over her stomach and wind together nervously. “So, did you?”

Fucking Weasley. Merlin. Draco snickers again. 

“Yes, I did. He was a clumsy, red-headed oaf who always managed to get away with murder,” Draco says dryly. He touches his wand and increases the vibration at the base of her spine, just a notch. “He once flew a charmed car onto school grounds and almost destroyed an enchanted tree. I was furious when he barely got a slap on the wrist.”

“So you didn’t get on?” she asks, overly-casual. Draco observes her a moment.

“No,” he says slowly. 

“Oh.” Sophie’s face flickers with disappointment, and satisfaction fills Draco as he finally sees the inroad he’s been searching for.

“But we do now,” he adds. “Feel anything?”

“You do?” she blurts. She looks at him suspiciously. “How well?”

“Sophie.”

“Right, sorry,” she huffs, then pauses, furrowing her brow. “Same spot. My hip. Kind of.” Her face contorts bitterly. “Or I could be imagining it.”

“Very well,” Draco says, segueing smoothly away from her self-reflection. “I’ve—ah—spent time with him in the last year.”

“Right, and now you’re the best of mates?” she enquires sceptically. “I bet you were awful to him in school. You’re awful to me.”

“You can take it,” Draco tells her with a sly smile, and she rolls her eyes. “And as a matter of fact, I was. Awful, that is. I tried to tell you. I’m not sure I’d call us the best of mates now, but he certainly tolerates me well enough to invite me over to his parent’s home for dinner. It’s often that way, when you’ve done something important for someone,” he says, glossing over the collection of debts stacked in Ron’s favour. 

“He owes you things?” she asks, eyes growing large. 

“He might,” Draco says noncommittally, casting a light diagnostic spell at her hip. A small patch of skin over the ridge of her anterior inferior iliac spine lights up, glowing gold, no more than two centimetres square. Still, it’s better than yesterday. “Then again, I’d hate to collect on a debt for something that’s not worth my time.”

She gives him a sharp, assessing look. “I’m playing nice, aren’t I? I could feel it when you cast that spell just now.”

“Sophie, I don’t think you understand the concept of nice,” Draco says, hiding a grin. “Still, cooperation will get you a lot of places. But I don’t make any promises.”

“I first saw him on a chocolate frog card. I begged my parents to invite him to my eighth birthday party,” she confesses musingly, and her eyes twinkle a bit. “I don’t know if they ever did, but he never showed up.”

“Well, your sixteenth is just around the corner,” Draco says. “Perhaps I could arrange an autographed photo.”

She feigns outrage and flips him two fingers, but at the corner of her mouth, there lurks a smile.

***

Draco composes the letter carefully, revising it several times until he feels satisfied.

_Ron,_

_I’m writing to ask you a very great favour, and one which I hope you can keep in confidence. My current client is a young girl who harbours, shall we say, an unhealthy fascination with uncivilized ginger war-heroes who don’t know their salad fork from their dinner fork. As I happen to be in the acquaintance of one such atrocity, I may have intimated that he would not be opposed to visiting, which would almost certainly guarantee her collaboration in her own treatment, something that has been sorely lacking. It is also something that said rodent war hero could feel quite good about having helped with._

_Her sixteenth birthday is in two weeks, but I understand that, if you agree, you are not always available, so whenever you choose to visit would be fine. If not, please let me know and I’ll ~~be forced, to her great disappointment, poor thing, to~~ make other arrangements._

_In all seriousness, I would appreciate this very much; this girl has been a hard shell to crack, and for some reason she opened up when I said I went to school with you. (Yes, I explained we were not friends. Yes, I said I was awful.) She even mentioned something about having begged her parents to write you to visit for her birthday eight years ago._

_And now, to pile awkward on top of uncomfortable: Whether you agree or not, I’d ask that you refrain from telling Harry. As I’m sure Hermione has explained, the situation between us was not one that could be maintained. I discussed this with Harry, and attempted to make as clean a break as I was capable. It was not healthy or constructive, and those are the things I want for him in life. So please be discreet about this letter._

_Enclosed is the Floo address of the home I’m working at; feel free to firecall or simply return an owl whenever you can. Give my regards to Hermione._

_Best,_

_Draco Malfoy_

Before he can stop himself, he seals the letter and sends it off with one of the family’s long-distance owls. Much to Draco’s surprise, Ron is a decent sort. Perhaps he always was, even back in school. Either way, he’s matured enough that Draco feels relatively confident that he’ll agree to meet Sophie. 

The only problem is hoping he doesn’t confide in Harry. 

For the first time, Draco is acutely able to identify with phantom-limb pain, so deep is the ache in his bones for the other man. He thinks of Harry’s last words to him that night, before he’d fallen asleep, wondering if they could have worked out any other way. 

Draco wonders, too. In fact, it’s a question he can’t stop asking himself in the darkest hours of the night when he can’t sleep for wanting to feel Harry’s skin against his own. 

But he’s never been brave for himself, not once in his life. Draco knows that; he accepts it as a part of his personality. He can be brave to protect his mother or his friends, but doing so depletes his small stores of courage, and there’s never any left for himself. So he makes his life as simple as he can, to better avoid any situations where he’ll be left vulnerable again. 

Harry was—not simple. 

He feels ashamed of himself for lying to Harry on that last night. He knows full well that his feelings for the other man are real. But, he’d had to break away somehow. He’d needed to. He thinks of what his mother says, often. That she would have stayed with Lucius, even if they’d not had thirty years together. He tells himself that it brings him comfort, because at least he’d gotten _some_ time with Harry, some memories to take with him. 

He tells himself that it brings him comfort because it’s better than admitting he wants the full thirty years. 

Although a hundred would be better.  


*** 

Sophie is prattling on to him at the end of their session the following morning, and Draco tries to stay focused. Only, honestly, listening to a teenager talk about their crush is a bit like letting a Cornish Pixie fly around your head: after a while, all you can hear is the buzz of their wings and a high-pitched, annoying giggle. He wonders if this is why Pansy would roll her eyes back in school whenever he brought up Harry. 

“Draco! You’re not even listening!” she says, pouting with a practiced lower lip thrust out. 

“I am, Pet,” he says with a sigh. 

She wrinkles her nose at him. “Pet?” 

“Sorry,” he corrects, “Brat. Better?” 

“Thank Merlin, I thought you were suddenly going soft,” she says snidely. 

“I’m not the one who won’t shut up about a childhood crush,” he points out, levitating her easily into her wheelchair. 

“He's not a crush,” she argues. “Just a—fascination. I’m too old for crushes.” 

He’s about take apart that statement when they’re interrupted by her mother, who stands in the doorway. She’s composed, but her face is pale and she looks decidedly odd. “Draco? You have a visitor.” 

“A visi—” He barely keeps from swearing as he realises. When he’d written Ron that the visit could be flexible, time-wise, he’d not expected the complete moron to show up _immediately._

__

“He’s in the parlour,” Elizabeth says, then looks at her daughter, who is staring up at him with obvious curiosity and barely-concealed hope. 

“Right. My apologies,” he says, shaking his head slightly at Sophie. One day of cooperation does not warrant a visit from her celebrity _crush._

He heads to the parlour and pauses outside the door for a moment, feeling—guilty, almost. He can’t pretend it was good etiquette to walk out with no word on people with whom he’d spent the better part of a year. Friends, even, perhaps. And then to owl him out of the blue to ask a favour… 

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door. 

And there is Harry. 

He stands in front of the Floo, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pressed jeans. His glasses are slightly askew, and his inky hair looks as though he tried to style it, though it still sticks out in all directions, but his eyes are that same, unwavering bottle-green that seems to have only grown more intense in the last two months. 

Draco swallows against the rush of sheer _relief_ at the sight of him; Harry looks so healthy, so fucking _good_ that it’s all he can do not to launch himself at the other man. He’d left for a reason, after all. So, he focuses on the niggle of bitterness curling in his stomach instead. 

“Ron?” he bites out. 

Harry looks startled. “Surely you haven’t forgotten my name.” 

Draco glares at him, keeping close to the door in case Harry has any funny ideas about replaying what happened on their last night together. As if Draco hasn’t replayed it in his mind a thousand times since. “Ron told you I was here.” 

Harry shakes his head. “No.” 

“I—” Draco waves an abstract hand, studying him. “I wrote to him. How did you know, then?” 

“Again, I say, surely you haven’t forgotten my name,” he says with an ironic smile. “Hi, I’m Harry Potter.” 

“Right,” Draco says on a ragged breath. Pretty much every part of him feels ragged, actually. “The darling of every Wizarding world. How long did it take you to find my location?” 

“A few days after you took the job,” Harry admits. “I wanted to—wait.” 

“For what?” 

“Listen, can I sit?” he asks, gesturing to the sofa. “It’s been raining a lot lately and the damp makes my—well, everything hurt.” 

“Of course,” Draco says faintly, then pulls into himself. “Do you need—” 

_“No,_ ” Harry cuts him off, so suddenly and sharply that Draco would take a step back if he weren’t already pressed against the door. His face softens a bit, and he sits down, looking rueful. “Sorry. No. I don’t need you to do anything. Thank you.” 

Draco takes a couple of tentative steps forward, glancing at Harry cautiously, and then heads to the chair across from him. “Why are you here, Harry?” 

“I’m here because I’ve tried,” he says simply. “I’ve tried. I’ve waited to get over you. And I can’t. I don’t want to. I’m in—well, we’re good together. Apart from the therapy. Apart from your help and my—whatever you call them—control issues. And so I thought if I came to see you…” he trails off awkwardly. 

“Two months doesn’t change anything,” Draco says through dry lips, after getting his pounding heart under control. 

“Two months changes a lot,” Harry disagrees. “How have you been, Draco?” 

_Suffocating_ , Draco thinks, _and now that you’re with me, it feels like I can breathe._ “Smashing.” 

“Good. I’m glad,” Harry says earnestly. He shifts slightly in his seat, and his hands seek out his right thigh, which he absently massages. It takes all of Draco’s considerable effort not to walk over to him and help. “Now ask about me.” 

Draco leans back in his chair and regards him. “How have you been?” 

“Not so good at first,” Harry admits with a wince. “But I—I never told you that night some of the requirements of getting re-certified with the Ministry. One of them was a psychological evaluation.” 

“Oh?” It’s all he can manage. 

Harry smiles a little. “Yeah. And I was cleared for teaching, you know. But she—the psychologist—recommended I come back. So I, well, did.” 

Draco swallows. “And?” 

“And I think you were right about some of it. Not _everything_ ,” he stresses. “But, maybe, things about me. My expectations for where we would go. I got so _angry_ when I realised you were leaving and at least part of it was about how I’d come to rely on you. Which I do think is important, but shouldn’t be—a requirement between people who are together. And was probably largely based on the fact that you helped with this,” he adds, nodding down at his leg. 

“Yes,” Draco agrees. He licks his lips and looks away. “So I’m not sure why you’re actually—what you’re saying. Are you here to apologise? Because I’m reasonably certain I’m far more at fault for what happened than you.” 

“I’m here to ask you on a date,” Harry says. His face is bright and open and expectant. “Do you remember what I said before you left?” 

Feeling lightheaded, Draco hesitates for a moment, then nods. 

“So, I’d like to try that,” Harry continues quietly. “To see if we could be—the same, under different circumstances. Better, even, maybe. To see if we still fit, outside of everything else.” 

Draco knows exactly where he’d liked to fit Harry, he thinks dizzily, but that doesn’t mean any of this is a good idea. Still, the thought of letting Harry leave for some indeterminate amount of time or possibly forever, makes Draco’s lungs grow precariously tight again. 

“How would that work?” he asks carefully. 

“I thought—well, I could come here. Or you could visit me. Where ever you want, really. I’m, um, not staying with the Ministry,” he says quietly, and Draco blinks at him in surprise. Harry shrugs. “I just don’t like it there as much as I thought I would. The Auror trainees are—it’s awful, Draco,” he suddenly complains, flopping backward against the cushions of the sofa. “I’d been wondering in the last few years where they were getting their recruits from, because training was taking twice as long, and so many of the newer ones were making simple mistakes, but I’d not understood the half of it.” 

Draco smiles unwillingly. “So you’re just quitting, then? Going to be a shiftless layabout? Sorry, man of leisure. Whichever term you prefer.” 

Harry chuckles. “No. I just think that the people going into MLE should be better trained by the time they arrive. I’ve gotten job offers from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Ilvermorny, and Uagadou. Defence. Uagadou is primarily interested in me because I can do wandless magic, so I’ll probably pass on that as I’d have no idea how to teach it, but the others are good, solid offers. And I can take my time deciding, too. I know you move around a lot, for your job, but I’d prefer Hogwarts or Beauxbatons anyway, and since you keep a flat here—” He pauses for breath, then seems to realise he hadn’t taken one in a while. He looks vaguely embarrassed, and stares down at his hands. 

Mildly alarmed, Draco can’t think of much to say. Only— “That’s impressive. But you should pick whichever school you think you’d like the most,” he adds, watching the other man closely. 

It’s Hogwarts, of course it is. But how Harry responds _matters_. If he says he’d like to live in France, it’ll be just because he wants to be close to Draco, and it’ll be a lie, as well. 

Harry stares back at him, glowering slightly as if he knows what Draco is thinking. “Hogwarts, then,” he says, a touch grimly, and Draco nearly sags with relief. 

“You’ll be brilliant there,” he says sincerely. 

“They haven’t found a good D.A.D.A professor since—well, Snape, actually,” Harry offers with a wince. “A couple of decent ones, none of whom lasted more than a few years. Right now they have a teacher who’s trained in Charms rather than Defence at the desk. Although Charms are dead useful in it,” he adds hastily, face reddening as though he’s said something offensive. “I just mean, he’s not _specifically_ trained for that subject.” 

“Harry, I don’t give a rat’s arse about Charms,” Draco says, trying to tamp down his delight. This whole _thing_ could be a pointless venture, could lead Draco to his ruin, but for the first time in his life, he feels willing to wander onto the road not taken for the chance to make Harry blush like that again, halting and sweet. He wonders briefly how he'd ever managed to convince himself he couldn't. Now, with Harry here, the world is suddenly filled with every colour, blocking out the dismal greys that Draco has been dragging around with him. 

“Right, okay.” He meets Draco’s eyes again. “So, will you think about it? Coming out with me?” 

A knock sounds quietly on the door, and after a moment of charged silence, Draco calls, “Come in.” 

Elizabeth peeks her head in. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I thought I should offer—that is, would either of you like any refreshments?” She’s perfectly polite, but staring at Harry with that same, slightly glazed expression that Draco has seen a dozen times in Diagon Alley. 

“No, thank you,” Harry says, quirking a polite and bashful smile her way. Her cheeks become rosy as he looks at her. “And really I should be apologising to you, for coming into your home without even being introduced. 

“Think nothing of it,” she says graciously. “You’re a friend of Draco’s. And you’re—well, of course you’re always welcome, Mr. Potter.” Her voice drops. “And may I take this opportunity to say thank you, as well." 

She’s an elegant woman, and Draco can see that it embarrasses her to compliment him in such a forward fashion, but she meets his eyes levelly. 

“Thank you for saying so,” Harry returns quietly. “And for welcoming me here.” 

“Draco? Would you like something?” 

“No, thank you, Elizabeth. We’re almost done here,” he adds. 

She withdraws with a small smile, and he turns back to Harry, who looks disappointed. “We’re almost done here?” 

“I need to get back to work. So once we decide on when you’ll come back, you should go,” Draco says. “If it helps, I have next Sunday off.” 

And Harry smiles at him, slowly, like the sun breaking over the horizon.  


***

~~_Ferret_ ~~ _Draco,_

_As you now know, I don’t need to tell Harry. You dick. For some reason, he has an unnatural fascination with overly-inbred, snobbish albinos who don’t know how to say a proper goodbye when they’re running away from themselves._

_Hermione’s furious at you, so be warned. But she says to apologise if she gave you the impression that she was unhappy about your relationship with Harry and to let you know it was merely concern for the both of you and also something about how you didn’t just help him walk again and if you’re too stupid to see it then you can just go fuck yourself. (I may have paraphrased.) My mum is also not happy. She liked you. I don’t know why ~~anyone does~~_.

_I’m available on Sunday, when Harry will be in to see you. I may have to leave early, but feel it’s my duty to at least drop in on someone with such good taste, especially if she’s being influenced by other ~~undesirable~~ sources. Please give her my regards and tell her I’m looking forward to meeting her._

_(I’m glad you’re not being stupid this time ‘round. Try to stay that way.)_

_~~Yours in loathing~~ See you Sunday,_

_Ron_

***

Sophie eyes him with disbelief edging on panic. “He’s actually coming? _Here?_ Today?”

Draco hides his amusement. “I thought it best to wait to tell you in case he had to back out.” He pauses. “You _are_ aware he’s married, aren’t you? And twenty years your senior?”

She waves a hand as if that doesn’t matter. “I have to call Isabella.” She taps her chair with her wand and starts rolling out of the room, then pauses, looking at him uncertainly. “You don’t think he’ll mind if I have a friend with me?”

Draco coughs to cover the laugh threatening to escape. “I think he’ll brag about it for years to come,” he teases—although it has the ring of truth to it. 

“Draco. You’re not completely terrible,” she hedges with a smile. She hesitates. “You know, I did some reading this week.”

“Ah. I’m glad to be apprised that you do, in fact, know how.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, I mean—” she glances significantly at his Dark Mark, and meets his eyes again, more serious than he can remember having seen her before. “I didn’t pay a lot of attention to it when it happened a couple of years ago, but I know what happened to Harry Potter. You helped him; it was in the papers. And so I started thinking, and, well, I read _Voldemort’s Reign_ and _The Battle of Hogwarts_ and _The Boy Who Lived Again._ ”

Draco blinks. He’s made a point to not read any of the books written about the war, but he’s seen them in shops on occasion, and each of them looks to be about a thousand pages. “You read all three in twelve days?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Fucking swot,” he mutters, happy to be able to echo it back to her after two weeks. She laughs, then grows serious again.

“You’re in them, you know.”

“I imagine so,” he says lightly, against the twist in his midsection.

“And—you’re just—not completely terrible, you know?” she repeats. 

Touched, Draco flounders for a moment with how to respond. “You’re just saying that because Ron Weasley will be here in a bit.”

“Of course I am,” she agrees, turning slightly pink. “Except, also, thanks. He’s a good birthday present. I’d better call Isabella and go change.” 

Sophie turns to leave and Draco narrows his eyes at her retreating chair. “You don’t get to _keep_ him,” he calls out, and she says something that sounds suspiciously like _we’ll see_ before turning the corner. 

He watches the empty hallway for a moment thoughtfully. It’s not as though he can set much store by what a teenager thinks of his past actions, but her mother, far closer to the war, was equally accepting. He ponders what he said to Harry, about how he wasn’t afraid of the people in England and feels slightly embarrassed at the obviousness of his deceit. Of course he’s afraid. He may no longer fear getting murdered by an angry mob, but people need to think well of someone their Saviour falls in love with, don’t they? People need to feel confident in his actions, even when they’re placing more upon him than he could ever possibly live up to.

Not that Harry has ever had much trouble living up to the expectations set on him. It may take him a while, but he always comes through.

For the first time, Draco wonders if that could be true of himself, as well.

***

“I’m sorry about the rain,” Harry says, casting a quick drying charm over his hair before it starts dripping onto Draco’s floors. He looks around curiously.

“Yes, that’s such an annoying habit you have of controlling the weather,” Draco murmurs wryly. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Either, thanks,” he says. “I just meant that I had the day planned. I wanted to go flying with you. We haven’t been together, yet.”

“I’d assumed as much when you brought that thing with you,” Draco says, nodding to Harry’s custom broom before walking into the kitchen to put the kettle on. “Another time.”

“You think there will be another time?” Harry asks cautiously. 

Draco shrugs. “I think if we’re doing this, we might really try.” 

A tiny smile curves Harry’s mouth. “I like your flat. It looks just like you.”

“Really?” Draco looks at his kitchen in surprise. It’s painted a pale shade of yellow, and the trim and polished countertops and cabinets are a softened white. He’d decorated it when he’d first moved in, but he’s been meaning to change it for years. 

“Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, you look good in any environment,” Harry says as the kettle whistles. Draco gets up and prepares them tea, and Harry blows on his before continuing, “But here, you look—at home.”

“Well, it’s my home, Harry.”

“I know. It’s just—it doesn’t look very lived in,” he says falteringly. 

“When you travel for work and live elsewhere ten months of the year, it’s easy to maintain a hotel quality to a space,” Draco comments idly, glancing around. “Sometimes it feels as such.”

“Why did you bring me here, Draco?” Harry asks.

Draco takes a careful sip of his tea and puts his cup down. “It was raining?”

“We could have gone to a café. To see a film. Done an _Impervious_ and walked a bit. Any number of things.”

“Should I not have brought you here?” When Harry doesn’t answer, Draco sighs. “I’m not trying to seduce you, you twat. If that’s what you’re thinking. I suppose I just wanted to—maybe—show you a bit of myself.”

“I wanted to see it.” Harry exhales hard. Then, almost too low to hear, “I’ve missed you.”

Draco nods to himself a bit, staring down at his tea. “When do you start at Hogwarts?”

“After Easter hols,” Harry says, picking up the change in subject with ease. “I was going to begin after summer, but the professor was offered a spot in a small private school teaching Charms, so Minerva asked if I’d be available earlier. And I’d like to get started. I’m beginning to go a little mental cooped up all day.”

Draco purses his mouth. “Cooped up?”

Fondness creeps over Harry’s face, like he doesn’t want Draco to see it. “You’re still not reading the papers.”

“I avoid them at all costs,” Draco corrects with an amused huff.

“Well, they’ve gotten worse. What with my quitting—being transferred out of?—the Aurors, and leaving the Ministry, full stop. There are all of these profiles, dragging up my career, my love life, things of that nature.”

“Your love life?” Draco enquires delicately. He feels disconcerted, although he knows the press would be hounding him as well if they’d gotten a whiff that anything unprofessional had happened between the two of them.

Harry grimaces. “Just the same thing that happens whenever I’m single. Speculation on when I’ll start dating again, lists of my _preferences_ in a partner, usually compiled from interviews from previous dates or boyfriends or girlfriends. It doesn’t help that I agreed to this awful Bachelor Auction for charity several years ago. The woman was a nightmare; wouldn’t shut up or stop trying to touch my scar and then gave several statements about what I was like in bed—which never happened. My solicitor had a field day with her.”

“I’m impressed, Harry,” Draco drawls. He’d have loved to have seen that. “I wasn’t aware you had such shit taste in partners that they’d give interviews.”

“I don’t anymore,” Harry says quietly, meeting his eyes. Draco’s cheeks warm, and Harry crooks a lopsided grin at him. “Or, at least, they don’t, anymore,” he adds pointedly.

Draco hums evasively, memories straying back to Rita Skeeter’s excitable floating quill. 

“How is everything else? Ron, Hermione? I appreciate him coming out today,” Draco murmurs, and Harry startles him with a bark of laughter. 

“Not as much as he appreciated being asked,” Harry informs him, still snorting. “He still gets a couple hundred private invitations a year, but he was disgustingly cheerful about meeting with a girl who’d wanted to invite him to her birthday party eight years ago. If we didn’t know him any better, we would have been concerned with how much he was looking forward to meeting a sixteen-year-old fan.”

“Technically she’s fifteen for a few more days,” Draco says, revolted. “He wouldn’t—”

“Can you imagine Hermione’s reaction?” Harry points out, and Draco blanches. “And anyway, he still looks at her the way he did at Hogwarts. Really, she’s the only one he’s ever looked at, in any way that counts.”

“Yes,” Draco says wistfully. He Summons a package of slightly stale biscuits from a cabinet and sets them out. Harry smiles, pleased, and takes one, leaving crumbs all over his shirt as he eats it. “History is important.”

“My psychologist says that one of the reasons we may have a good chance is because we had prior history before you helped me walk again,” Harry ventures after he swallows, voice going deep and sombre. “That because we already had all of these intense emotions for each other, the patient/caretaker aspect of it became tangled up in that, rather than vice-versa.”

Draco chokes a bit on his own saliva. “You’re telling me that your psychologist is encouraging—this? After—”

“She’s encouraging me to be happy,” Harry corrects. “And to be honest with myself. And with others. And it’s not easy all of the time, but—no, she’s not unencouraging about the idea of us dating.”

He slides a tentative hand across the table, brushing the tips of Draco’s fingers with his own. Draco wavers, looking at Harry’s strong, tanned hand just barely touching his. He reaches forward, hand covering Harry’s, who turns his palm upward to curl his fingers around Draco’s palm. Draco lets out a ragged breath of a sigh and looks out the window. Harry follows his gaze. It’s stopped raining.

Neither of them mention it.

“How was your Christmas?” Draco asks after a while, once their tea is gone and Harry’s shirt is basically made up of a layer of crumbs.

“Miserable,” Harry says in that blunt way of his. “Yours?”

“A disaster,” Draco chuckles. He’d refused to come back to the Manor so quickly after leaving it, which had prompted his mother to come visit. “My mother came.”

“I like your mother,” Harry says mildly. He squeezes Draco’s hand, and Draco feels it inside his chest, his stomach, his muscles, which are somehow relaxed and yet tensed for—something.

“She came with news. Of Andromeda,” Draco adds, arching an eyebrow. Harry suddenly notices the crumbs on his shirt and begins cleaning them off manually, with great diligence, because they’re obviously fascinating. “You shouldn’t have meddled.”

Harry gives him a caught look. “I didn’t. I just—asked. What happened?”

“She was confused. Mother, that is,” Draco clarifies. Grudgingly he adds, “But happy.”

“Good.”

Out of rejoinders, they stare at each other for a minute and the room grows warm around Draco. A current of frustrated magic gathers on Harry’s skin, invisible but almost tangible, and Draco’s heart begins to race; his treacherous body starts to respond to the silent display of power Harry radiates. 

“I want to kiss you,” Harry confesses, voice going low and velvet.

“Then why aren’t you?” Draco asks. Harry’s body jerks, eyes wide and focused, and he starts to reach across the table before he visibly halts himself.

“I—The last time I kissed you was in a kitchen.”

“I remember.”

“I never explained why—why the sex was so—” He pulls himself away further, posture straight. His eyelids lower, sooty lashes becoming tangled as he looks down at their joined hands.

“Harry.”

Harry sucks in a sharp breath. “I missed it. Sex like that, with no constraints. I enjoyed sex, before my—before my injury. And with you. But I’d missed it.”

“I gathered,” Draco tries to joke, but it comes out uneven. 

Harry’s expression twists. “Sometimes it was still difficult,” he says flatly. “Coming. When I couldn’t finish, I—I hated it. Not being able to give you that. It felt like such a—” he pauses, searching, “a _gift_ whenever I could make you come. And then to not be able to…” His voice cracks, trails off.

Irrationally shocked, Draco can do nothing but look at him. After a moment, he manages to gather his thoughts. “I never minded, except for your sake. Except that I knew it bothered you.”

“It was still happening, when I got my leg back. Occasionally. And, I don’t know, it still could. But when I could control the pace, the style, it was easier. When we got swept up like that, I didn’t end up _thinking_ about it, which always seemed to make it worse.”

Draco clears his throat. “I believe I made clear how much I enjoyed sleeping with you. In any fashion.”

“But you weren’t entirely wrong,” Harry says. “About my motives. It _bothered_ me that I couldn’t—participate as well without my leg. When I finally could, I didn’t want to give that up.”

Draco makes an impatient noise. Contrite, self-aware Harry is probably a good thing, but it’s not the best look on him. “I’m not sure why you’re telling me things I’ve previously explained to you.”

One corner of Harry’s mouth ticks up. “Sorry. I just thought you should know that I know. I’m not going to pressure you or anything.”

Draco shakes his head, exasperated. “Because following me to a different country and then bringing up sex when we’re alone in the kitchen is what people do on normal dates.”

“I never claimed to be normal,” Harry says, bemused. 

“I don’t want you to be,” Draco says, then stands. He comes closer and leans down, pressing a light kiss to Harry’s mouth, then another, deepening it slowly, deliberately, when Harry’s lips open under his. After a moment, he straightens. “I’m not sleeping with you tonight.”

“Right,” Harry says, flustered. “Why?”

“I have to get back to work, soon.” He actually doesn’t; he has the whole day off, but— “Besides, we’re—dating. And complicated, right now.”

“I’ve heard that sex can be a part of dating,” Harry says hopefully. “It can even be complicated.”

“You shouldn’t listen to rumours,” Draco says snidely, and Harry rolls his eyes, but subsides deeper against the back of his chair. Draco hesitates. He’s not entirely sure of his own self-control, and Harry is entirely too potent for his peace of mind, but he doesn’t want to leave quite yet, not with the taste of Harry’s mouth still fresh on his tongue. “I have DVDs.”

Harry’s eyes brighten. “Draco Malfoy, Friend of Muggles,” he muses. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.”

Draco swats him on the shoulder. “It’s that or we go now.”

“That,” Harry says, standing. He’s a bit too close, and even as Draco thinks this, he’s leaning even closer; his nose brushes against the hair at Draco’s temple and he inhales. When he pulls back, there’s a ruddy bloom over his cheekbones. “As if you had to ask.”

***

It’s awkward, but it’s dating. Harry has more experience in this field, so Draco allows him to take the reins most of the time, which works for both of them as Draco is too busy with Sophie to plan much.

Harry takes him to the cinema, and museums, and on Draco’s next free day, they spend a whole afternoon sitting in the cold sand in a disillusioned Wizarding section of Voilier Beach. The weather is dry but the wind is blistering, and Harry has to cast continual warming charms so that Draco doesn’t end up freezing to death. He solves that problem by stretching out next to Harry and snogging him for an hour straight, until Harry is groaning, as restless as the ocean, and saying, _please, Draco_ until Draco pulls away, almost insane enough with lust to open up Harry’s trousers and be done with it, in full view of the public.

He’s surprised at himself; that his level of infatuation with Harry only increases every day. There’s something delectable about postponing what feels inevitable, like the deep inhale one takes before sampling a vintage elf-wine, or the tremble of magic in the wrist before you cast a spell. Harry’s hands travel, questioning and desperate and shaking, over Draco’s body whenever they spend a few minutes in Draco’s flat, but he seems to sense just how far he can go before Draco balks.

Although Draco isn’t sure why he does, anymore.

Perhaps it’s as simple as that he’s never _done_ this before. The closest he’d gotten to dating as a teenager was with Pansy, which makes him shudder now when he thinks about it. And then there was John, and a string of thirty-minute somethings to take the edges off, and then falling into bed with Harry under dubious circumstances. The other man visits more often than he should, chatting with Elizabeth until Sophie’s sessions are done for the evening—and then sitting with him in the drawing room, talking about nothing and everything. And Draco thrums with frustrated energy every night after Harry leaves. 

Harry takes to spoiling him a bit, bringing him little gifts of things he thinks Draco will like. A tiny ivory statue of a fox—Draco’s Patronus—that, when touched, uncurls from its sleeping posture and stretches from its pointed nose to its puffy tail; a small canvas that looks to be a summer sky until the lights go off, then darkens and shines with the constellation he’s named after. He hands them over like mere trinkets, as though he’s embarrassed to have procured them, and it occurs to Draco that Harry, for all of his experience, is searching, too. For the right things to do and say, for the things he thinks will win Draco’s heart, as if it weren’t already his. 

He objects the first time Draco takes his leg in his lap and presses his hands to it; he’s gotten a new part-time physiotherapist, and he says he doesn’t want Draco to feel like he’s part of that role anymore. Draco calmly keeps rubbing the ache away and points out that if Harry were still an Auror, and Draco were in massive danger, he’d be perfectly fine with Harry coming to his rescue.

_The way you always have,_ goes unsaid.

Harry seems determined not to push him, although his mouth does tighten when Draco mentions, with regret, having already taken the assignment in New Zealand. But instead of getting petulant, Harry takes a deep breath and mentions that it won’t be difficult for him to procure a recurring International Portkey if Draco wants to see him.

Sophie slowly gains moderate sensation—to hot and cold and pressure—in her legs, helped largely by the fact that she wants to impress Ron, who continues to come over on Draco’s off-days, and sits with the girl while he and Harry go out. And it turns out that her parents were right, because she can be _a lovely child, really_ —whenever she feels like it. At least enough to cooperate with Draco so that he can modify his treatment to best help her. She’s got a sturdy sort of resolve and even more cheek, which becomes clear after she coos at Ron that she’s able to feel sensation in her thighs now and does he want to touch them so she can demonstrate?

Ron turns as red as his hair as Harry roars with laughter and drags Draco away, although Draco pauses to inform Elizabeth of her daughter’s proposition. When they return a few hours later, Elizabeth has moved the meeting from Sophie’s training room to the living room where she can oversee everything, Sophie looks sulky, and Ron looks incredibly relieved.

He brings Hermione with him the next time.

She gives Draco a look like murder, and he flashes back to her hot palm stinging across his face in school, but she also gives him a soft kiss on the cheek and clasps his forearm tightly, so he supposes all (or most) is forgiven.

As Easter approaches, Draco is backed into the realisation that time is running short. Harry will be starting as Professor after the holidays, and Draco can’t take Sophie much further. Which means he has a choice to make, and making the right one has never been a strength of his.

But at least he's clear, now, on what he wants. What both of them do.

And there was a reason he was placed in Slytherin so many years ago.

***

Counterpoint: Harry

When Harry wakes up alone, he wishes he could be more surprised. Instead, he allows a deep well of sadness to fill inside him, and it feels like something he’s been staving off for months; horrible and comforting, all at once.

He lays in bed the whole day, only getting up to use the loo. He uses his chair for it, for the first time since he got his prosthetic, Summoning it from the closet downstairs; it blows the hinges off the door and knocks over furniture on the way, leaving a cracked dent in the hall that he doesn’t bother to fix for days. 

On the second day, Ron comes over to congratulate him on his new position at the Ministry. Harry hears him calling downstairs, sounding alarmed as he notices the damage, and then his feet are pounding on the stairs and he crashes inside Harry’s bedroom, pulling up short as he realises Harry is in bed, unharmed. Harry struggles into a sitting position.

“What the fuck?” he blurts. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Ron chews his lip for a moment. “You don’t look fine. Where’s Draco?”

“He left.”

“When will he be back?”

Harry looks at him.

Ron’s face creases. “Merlin. He _left_ you like this?” he demands, face darkening with fury. “That’s not even—doesn’t Hermione have to release him or something? He’s—I’ll _kill_ the bastard.”

Harry closes his eyes. “He didn’t leave me like this. He just left. For good, he said.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then a shift on the edge of Harry’s mattress. A tentative hand pats him on the shoulder. “I thought you two were—”

“I did, too,” Harry says bleakly, staring into the void behind his eyelids, which burn with salt. He rubs at them, then looks at Ron, who is gazing down at him with a torn expression.

Ron frowns, slowly, like it takes effort. “Hermione will go mental if she sees you like this again.”

Harry glares at him, indifferent. “I don’t give a fuck what Hermione does.”

Ron punches him.

They’ve fought in training, of course; it’s impossible to avoid when you work side-by-side with someone. They’ve duelled for fun, and for work, and for practice. They’ve left the training arena, surrounded by the impressed cheers of the younger Aurors, and covered in bruises and blood and the occasional broken nose, but they always smile at each other, in the end.

Harry gawks at him in shock, his mouth throbbing. He puts a hand to his lower lip; it’s been split wide, and blood is flowing out steadily, covering his fingers. 

“ _Fuck_ you,” Ron spits. “No one gets to talk about her like that, I don’t care if it is you, you bloody _piece of shit_.”

Blankly, on auto-pilot, Harry touches his lip with the tip of his wand. But his focus is too scattered; the magic burns for a minute, knitting up the flesh only partway, barely staunching the flow of blood. 

Ron is breathing heavily, waiting for him to speak.

Harry swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“You bet your pathetic arse you are,” Ron snarls. “We’ve been letting you get away with this shit for too long. Because we fucking love you. Because I felt guilty. Because she said you can’t force someone out of depression. But it ends, now. You _piece of shit_ ,” he grinds out again, as if it bears repeating. 

It probably does, Harry thinks, still slightly dizzy from the force of Ron’s fist. 

“Okay,” Harry accepts quietly. “Okay.”

Ron pierces him with a hard, gauging look, jaw clenched. Then, sounding as if the words are forced, he repeats, “Hermione will go mental if she sees you like this again.”

“I’ll get up,” Harry tells him, and the tension in Ron’s shoulders ease. He tries his wand again, and this time his lip seals. He exhales hard, and grabs his glasses, shoving them on.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Ron says grudgingly, looking anything but. 

“No, you’re not,” Harry replies, wincing. His lip will likely ache for a few hours. He’s just grateful Ron didn’t loosen any teeth.

“No, I’m really not,” Ron agrees. He flexes his hand and shoves it into his pocket. “You had that coming.”

“I did. That, and more.”

Ron’s face softens. “Just don’t say things about ‘Mione.”

“I won’t,” Harry says, shame flooding him. He wishes he could tell Ron he hadn’t meant it, but it would be such a blatant lie that Ron would probably punch him again. Instead he says, “She didn’t deserve that.” He breathes in raggedly, and looks at his friend. “Neither did you.”

Ron’s mouth tightens. “I deserve a lot more, too,” he mutters.

“I was drinking,” Harry blurts, unable to bear the look on Ron’s face. Unable to keep it in anymore, now that he’s already gotten it out.

“What, _now?_ ” Ron asks, diverted. 

“That night. When I got hit with the curse.” Harry swallows against the bile threatening to rise. “I had a drink at a club and forgot to do a sobering charm.”

Ron’s eyebrows furrow; he looks bewildered. “And you think—Oh, Merlin.” He stumbles back a few feet and collapses in Harry’s chair, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “You thought we didn’t know?” He sighs hard, a gust of noisy air. “Harry, I’m the one who got you to St. Mungo’s. The Healers checked your blood content in front of me. You weren’t drunk, you know. Slightly over the limit for an on-duty Auror.”

Harry’s head swims; his nausea settles under his breastbone. “Why didn’t Kingsley just outright fire me over it? At the very least a reprimand. She died, Ron. Because I was too slow.”

Carefully, Ron says, “She died because she was almost dead. We’ve all told you that. The Healers even say that it would have been nearly impossible to keep her alive; the curse they’d used on her had liquified her liver.”

Harry flinches.

“And Kingsley didn’t write you up because I talked to the Healer on the case; I asked her to leave it out. You were _barely_ over the limit, Mate. You saved Susan, and me, and got cut nearly in half,” he says gently. “There were more important things to worry about than the fact that you’d had a drink.”

“I still did, though,” Harry says numbly.

“I know.” Ron’s silent for a moment. “And it could have gone better, and it could have gone worse. Instead, it happened the way it did.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me you knew? You know it wasn’t your fault. And I’ve been—”

“I _don’t_ know that,” Ron counters, severe. “I checked that bastard’s vitals, but I should have put him in a Body Bind. It’s so common it’s almost protocol, and you know it.”

“You were helping Susan,” Harry offers weakly.

“And yeah, you’ve been a right cock to me,” Ron continues neutrally, ignoring that. “But I _was_ partly responsible. And I guess I just thought—well, you needed someone to hate. I’ve needed to hate you before,” he says, obliquely referring to the Forest of Dean, and Harry can only nod. 

He waits for the relief to come—Ron knows, and doesn’t hate him—but all he can feel is the nausea and the darkness trying to encroach. Draco is gone, and the girl still died, and he lost his leg, and he doesn’t deserve friends like the ones he’s got.

They don’t talk for long minutes, and then Ron mumbles, “I’m hungry.”

It startles a laugh out of Harry, a jolt of familiarity toward something other than his own pain, and he realises with surprise that he is, too. “I’ve got food downstairs,” he says. “Hand me my leg.”

Ron snorts, but grabs his prosthetic from next to the bed and passes it over. He watches with undisguised curiosity as Harry applies the charm that binds it to him, but when he’s finished and looks up, Ron’s eyes are stark and serious.

“You can’t do this again,” he says. “If you need help, we’ll get you help.” He makes a face. “And we’ll figure out what to do about Draco.”

“I don’t know that there’s anything to do about Draco,” Harry tells him. 

But Ron just gives him an inscrutable smile, and they head downstairs to eat.

***

Harry likes the psychologist. He likes that she smiles a lot, as though she can’t help herself; he likes that she’s from America, and so not nearly as impressed with him as she would otherwise be. Sarah is only a bit older than him, but she has the steady sort of countenance that gives her gravitas, and makes it easy to take her seriously.

She allows him to talk at his own pace, and after the first three meetings, readily clears him to work with incoming Aurors. When she suggests that it might be beneficial to his frame of mind to see her on a regular basis, Harry doesn’t even hesitate to make the next appointment. Not only does she seem remarkably unrattled by the sheer volume of his complaints (although she gently corrects him when he uses that word, by telling him it’s not a complaint if it’s something he’s trying to work on), but she doesn’t bat an eye when he starts talking about Draco.

Harry knows where Draco has gone, of course. The day after Ron hauled him out of bed, he’d pulled some discreet strings and gotten the address of Draco’s new patient. Sarah asks if he thinks that’s wise, considering his history of obsession in regard to the other man, and Draco’s very real concerns about the way their relationship formed, but otherwise makes no obvious judgements when Harry assures her that he plans on giving them both some time.

Which he does. It hurts, every day, but he does. Thinking about Draco feels like tonguing a sore tooth; something Harry can’t stop himself from mindlessly doing, that never fails to bring on a sharp ache. 

He falls asleep thinking about Draco’s soft sighs, or frustrated demands, and works his hand over his cock with a rough hand. Sometimes he can’t come, and he settles into a depression for a day or two, dragging himself out of bed, forcing himself to put on his leg and his clothes and go into work. More often than not, though, he comes with a long cry, and feels raw with longing in the aftermath. 

Harry can see it clearly now, what he’d been doing with Draco. He doesn’t doubt his own love for the other man, but there’s no denying he’d been forcing Draco into a position he’d objected to from the beginning. It was easy, falling in love. Probably easier than it should have been, and greatly influenced by the way Draco never made him feel as though his leg was disgusting, something he still deals with on occasion. And it all felt so simple; after they’d gotten close, Harry had rarely had to think of his leg at all except as it pertained to being able to walk again.

He feels ashamed for his behaviour, but it doesn’t lessen his hunger for Draco; if anything, every day feels like a piece of elastic, slowly being stretched to its breaking point.

This sense of dissatisfaction is exacerbated by his new job not being remotely as fulfilling as he’d hoped. The recruits have scored well on their N.E.W.T.’s, in most cases, but they’re clumsy in practice. They can work charms and curses and counter-curses, but they don’t know how to dodge at the same time; they can brew potions but haven’t learned to identify the dangerous ones based on their odours. They pay attention to him because he’s Harry Potter, but it’s the wide-eyed, awe-struck kind of attention, that has him repeating himself more than once during instruction. He starts to feel bad when he lays someone out in a duel in the fourth week, and wonders if this is really the place for him.

He runs it past Ron and Hermione, the idea of leaving. He talks to Sarah and Kingsley, and then hands over his resignation and touches base with every public wizarding school. Several of them are happy with their Defence teachers, but a few are interested— _very_ interested. Minerva even cracks a rare, wide smile and admonishes him, “You know we’ve wanted you for years, Harry,” and he promises he’ll let her know soon.

He spends Christmas Eve at the Burrow with all of the Weasley’s and their rapidly growing families, and Teddy and Andromeda join him there. For some reason, being around the people who love him remains harder than venturing out into the hordes of people who don’t know him at all but think they do, so he’s nursing his third drink when Andromeda finds him sitting on a bench outside. There’s a light snow falling, and he likes to watch the flakes melt away into nothing as they hit his warming charm.

She sits down next to him and is silent for a moment, giving him a fond look when he covers her in his warming charm. Then, “We’ve missed you, Harry. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you getting better.”

He tries to smile at her, but his mouth feels like an oddly shaped twist. “Thank you.”

Andromeda gives him a regretful look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up—I just wanted to let you know. It’s hard, not being able to see the people you love.”

There’s a small _ping_ inside him, like the flash of anger or curiosity or sadness, something moving too quickly for him to pin down. “You know Draco helped me, right?”

Her eyes swerve from his, and she looks off into the distance, unknowingly falling on the warm bloom of plants in Molly’s garden, untouched by the weather. Made possible by Draco and his mother. 

“Yes,” she says after a moment. “I’ve read.”

“He mentioned that—well, that you refused to see Narcissa after the war.” When she doesn’t respond, he feels that flicker again. “It’s not my business.”

“It’s really not,” she says quietly, but she doesn’t sound angry. She sighs. “Can you imagine what it would be like? If it had been Teddy? Or Ron or Hermione, or anyone you’d really loved—can you imagine if someone who’d shunned you and aided their murderer for years beforehand wanted to resume a relationship?”

Harry thinks about it. The very idea of something happening to Ron or Hermione is so repellent it takes his breath away—to say nothing of Teddy, which he can’t even contemplate. 

“No,” he admits, then takes a fortifying breath. The air is icy and clears his mind from the dark images. “But, I really loved Dumbledore. It’s strange,” he murmurs softly, more to himself than her, “how I was never able to say that sort of thing when I was a teenager. We even talked about it, love and its power, quite often—and I still couldn’t say it. It was hard to think about. But I did. I loved him.”

“Of course?” she says, tone coming up at the end to make it a question. She gives him an odd look, like she doesn’t know where he’s going. 

“Draco—” Harry’s voice catches on his name, “He wasn’t directly responsible for Dumbledore’s death, but he was certainly complicit. He’d been tasked with killing him, tried all year. Not very well, because he didn’t really want to. But he let Death Eaters in the school; if Bellatrix hadn’t been on that tower, he might have accepted Dumbledore’s offer of help. Snape might never have been forced to kill him in front of witnesses.”

Andromeda is nodding. She knows the story—everyone does—but she still looks slightly confused. 

“We hated each other for years,” he continues with a humourless smile. “He hurt me every chance he got—not that I didn’t return the favour. And he aided Voldemort, and Dumbledore died.”

Andromeda makes a small sound in the back of her throat; she’s figured it out. “And you—”

“And I’m in love with Draco,” Harry finishes for her. He pauses. “It’s not the same, I know. So soon after the war, I probably wouldn’t have been able to see him that way. Or trust him. He wasn’t the man he is now. But I’ve changed too. The thing is, you’re right—it’s hard not being able to see the ones you love.”

“I’ve thought about contacting them both over the years,” she says at length. “But it was easier to do nothing. I was so devastated after Dora’s death. My own sisters.”

“Narcissa,” Harry says firmly, “Was not Bellatrix. She may have been more aware than Draco what the choices she was making would lead to, but she was still—in a lot of ways—trapped, like him.”

They are silent again for several long minutes. Harry refreshes the warming charm.

“Molly’s flowers are beautiful,” she says, changing the subject with a sigh, her voice tight with repressed sadness. “I’ll need to ask her about her atmospheric charms.”

“She planted Unicorn Breath seedlings,” he tells her.

She looks up at him in surprise. “Really? Wherever did she find them?”

Harry stands and offers his hand to her, helping her up. This time his smile feels real, normal on his face. “Draco gave them to her, from Narcissa’s garden.”

***

Harry is eating breakfast with Ron and Hermione when Ron gets the owl. She’s a pretty thing, with a white, heart-shaped face, and she flirts with Ron for a moment, landing on his shoulder and nuzzling the hair above his ear as he laughs and takes the rolled parchment. Then she flies off without waiting, and the three of them exchange glances.

“Something from the Ministry?” Harry guesses, when Ron’s eyes, scanning the letter, grow round with disbelief. He looks up at Harry, then away, shiftily. Ron’s been a little weird about talking about work again, especially since Harry has handed in his notice with Kingsley. 

“Uh, no. Just a letter,” he says, hastily rolling it back up, but not before Harry gets a glimpse of the elegant crest on the broken seal. 

“Okay,” he says, casually accepting, and then reaches out like a flash and grabs it from Ron. It hurts his leg, but what the hell.

“Harry!” Hermione reprimands. She turns to Ron. “What is it?”

“It’s from Malfoy,” he mutters, looking cross. Probably at himself for being so slow, Harry thinks, then snorts.

He unrolls it again, over Hermione’s objections. “If he sent it to Ron and not you—”

“Don’t pretend Ron wouldn’t have ended up spilling,” Harry mumbles as he reads. He feels the soothing tingle of Draco’s magic on the parchment, and hears himself laugh at what the other man has written, as though from far away. He stands. “Right, then. I’ll see you both later.”

“Harry!” Hermione says again, dismayed. “You’re not going—over there, are you?”

“Yes.”

She worries her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

“No,” he tells her with a crooked smile.

Hermione huffs a little, then marches up to him and runs her fingers through his hair a couple of times, mumbling. “Probably won’t get much better—really should get him some product—hold still, your shirt has a seam about to come apart.” 

She points her wand at him, and his comfortable t-shirt is suddenly in brand-new condition, and a quite a bit tighter than it’d been. She makes another swish, and his jeans are suddenly wrinkle-free. Then she takes a step back and views him critically. “You look good. _Too_ good for him, mind you, but it’s the most I’m willing to do.”

He brushes a kiss over her cheek and waves at Ron, who is looking at him stoically, before heading over to their Floo. He steps inside and calls out the address that was on the letter.

He steps into a posh study filled with mahogany bookshelves, a desk, and two elaborately embroidered sofas, and stops when he sees a woman sitting on one of them, reading a book.

She looks up at him in surprise, navy eyes blinking and Harry stands frozen, for the first time realising that he’s intruded on someone’s home with no invitation or reason to expect his presence. He smiles awkwardly as she stands.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurts. “I meant to—owl, beforehand. This is incredibly rude of me.”

“Are you—”

“Yeah. I was hoping to see Draco. I’m sorry,” he says again, when she continues looking at him silently.

“I’ll… go get him,” she murmurs, wiping the shock off her face with such ease that he wonders how much experience she’s had trying to hide her emotions. And if she could possibly teach him.

Harry shifts uneasily as he waits. He thinks maybe he should leave—Hermione was right, this was a dumb idea—but then suddenly Draco is there, stepping into the room. He wears a long-sleeved shirt rolled up at the cuffs to his elbows, and his hands are still covered in a light sheen of oil. His hair has gotten a bit longer, falling over his eyes, which go hot then cool as they observe Harry standing there. 

The coolness unnerves him.

_But_ , he reminds himself as he gathers courage, _they went hot first_.

*** 

How do you simply date a wizard with whom you’ve fallen in love a year prior?

You just _do,_ Sarah tells him, when Harry asks. You get to know him in a different setting; you make sure he doesn’t feel as though you’re reliant upon him for the things that first drew you together. You respect his boundaries and try not to push. 

It all makes sense in theory. 

Except that Harry is quickly becoming confused to what Draco’s boundaries _are_. No actual sex seems to be one, although he’s perfectly content letting Harry’s tongue ravage his mouth until his lips are swollen and red. No hands beneath the clothing seems to be another, although Draco frots against him furiously, seeking a release he doesn’t allow either of them before pulling away, flushed and frustrated, eyes strangely bright, mouth pulling into a secret sort of smile.

When Harry asks about it, Draco shrugs and mutters something about never realising that dating could be so enjoyable. It’s a compliment, but there’s something deeper to it, and Harry thinks over Draco’s inexperience a while before he understands that this includes actually falling into _like_ with another person in any kind of traditional way. He’s charmed down to his toes, and begins showing up at Draco’s place of work a few extra times each week. 

He chats amiably with Elizabeth, who is too refined to gush over him, but seems to enjoy his company and who, luckily, thinks his presence is romantic. She waves off Draco each night Harry shows up with an encouraging little smile when he’s finished working with Sophie, and Draco stops objecting in front of her, although he complains strenuously at how inappropriate it is to Harry before pressing him into the deep cushions of his couch and snogging him silly. 

And he sees what Sarah meant, when she’d said he needed to get to know Draco in a different setting. Without the heavy press of his responsibility toward Harry, he reveals more of himself, and without being prodded to do so. 

When Draco mentions the job he’s already taken—across the fucking globe—Harry really considers telling Minerva he needs another year before he can start; he considers asking Draco to find another job in France (or at least on this bloody continent). But the job itself is so perfectly suited for Draco’s line of study and work, he refuses to ask Draco to sacrifice for him. There are ways to travel that distance; he might not be able to see Draco as frequently, which stings, but money has never been an object and Draco sounds vaguely regretful, which helps.

He spends his time away from France searching for little things to give Draco so he’ll know everything Harry doesn’t want to say for fear of pushing him too fast, and it occurs to him that he’s a novice too, when it comes to courting; he’s had several relationships, but none that have mattered since he was a boy—none which took more effort to build than a date and a kiss. 

“That’s what you do when you want something to last,” Sarah tells him. “You take your time building it. Because if you use your wand and a lot of sticking charms, it’s going to collapse.”

He rolls his eyes at the metaphor, but concedes the point.

***

The night it finally happens is ordinary in every way. It’s Draco’s day off, and he invites him over to watch a boring historical documentary, which Harry only agrees to because sometimes Draco puts his bare feet in Harry’s lap, heels nestled close to his groin while Harry rubs them.

Their time is starting to run out, Harry knows; Draco talks about Sophie’s progress proudly, as if she’s reached the pinnacle of what she can do, and Easter is only a week away. It makes him ache inside, but he reminds himself that it’s only a year and they’ll see each other as often as their jobs will allow, and—

“Draco, will you come visit?”

Draco looks up, distracted. He pauses the film in the middle of a gory re-enactment of the American Civil War. “What?”

“I’ve no problem visiting you,” Harry says hastily. “Whenever I can. But I thought—with your mother being close, and all—when you come to visit the Manor like you have to—that you might—I won’t ask you to come to Hogwarts or anything.”

Draco smiles a little. He wiggles his feet in Harry’s lap, and Harry resumes rubbing them. 

“We’ll work it out,” he says.

Harry looks down at his fingers, stroking over Draco’s long, elegant arches. “All right. Because I was thinking—Do you remember how you said that things would always be uneven between us?”

“Yes. But, Harry—”

“No, wait.” He takes a deep breath and looks back up. Draco watches him patiently, pale hair a tousled mess from too many minutes kissing before they’d started the film, eyes soft and affectionate. “I know things are different between us. But I also think that being uneven isn’t the worst thing, you know?” 

When Draco’s eyebrows draw together slightly, Harry sighs and releases his foot with one hand to drag his fingers through his own hair. He’s never been good at finding the right words.

“I just mean—look at Ron and Hermione. The things she gives to him makes up for the things he lacks, and vice versa.”

“I’d warn you about suggesting that Hermione lacks in any department if I didn’t think you already knew how badly that could end for you,” Draco says dryly, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“She’s fun, right? But Ron, he’s— light-hearted. And he’s logical, but his heart gets in the way of his brain sometimes, and Hermione can always think things through; she knows how to calm him down. So they have some things they share, but the scales weigh more heavily on one side depending on the day or the circumstance,” Harry fumbles.

Draco nods slowly. “And we do too?” he guesses. He sounds oddly amused, but Harry is too relieved to have not botched it that he pays no attention.

“Yeah. You’re—clever. Thoughtful. I can work things out fine, but I like that you make me take my time, look at things from different angles. And I know you don’t think you’re brave, but when you feel that way, I have a bit of a reputation for it. Plenty to share,” he adds softly, flushing. “If you want. Sometimes we’ll need one and sometimes the other and so there’s no such thing as perfect balance, really. I don’t even think there should be.”

“I love you.” Draco says it simply, on a hard sigh with no lead-in, and Harry finds himself momentarily speechless. They are on the sofa, and there is a documentary on pause, and he is holding Draco’s feet, and Draco loves him. The overwhelming _normalcy_ of the moment should make the whole thing feel anticlimactic. But it doesn’t.

“Good,” he manages after a moment. “I knew you did.”

“I shouldn’t have run,” Draco adds, and where the hell did his reticence go? But Harry refuses to question his good luck. If making clumsy, awkward statements about their relationship gets the other man to open up, Harry is suddenly sure things will be fine.

“You had to,” he says, making his hands start moving again. He skims them over Draco’s ankles and up, beneath the cuffs of his trousers. The golden hair on his legs rasps under Harry’s palms. “You were right to. Because if you hadn’t, you’d have spent the rest of your life thinking I’d wanted you for a different reason. You’d never have been able to convince yourself we could work out.”

“I haven’t convinced myself _now_ ,” Draco corrects him with a smirk. 

“You’re getting closer,” Harry says, feeling smug, and Draco’s smirk grows into a smile. “Hermione told me—”

“Come to bed.”

Harry raises his eyebrows to hide the streak of arousal that shoots through him. “We’re allowed to do that now?”

Draco laughs. “Shut up, or I’ll take it back.”

Harry clamps his mouth shut pointedly, and they move to the bedroom together. He’s never been in, before; the walls are done in a bright, clean white, and it has a massive bed that dominates the room; the tufted headboard is wide, with polished silver buttons in the divots, three shades darker than the fabric, and exactly matching the crisply-made bedcovers. Harry swallows; it looks like Draco’s bed was conjured from a dream about all of the shades of his own eyes.

He feels unaccountably shy when he sees it. The teasing laughter from a moment ago vanishes into something almost solemn. Harry’s stomach tightens as Draco calmly undresses himself, then turns to him. 

Harry’s clothing comes off carefully, reverently, under Draco’s hands. He kisses each piece of skin he uncovers; Harry’s fluttering belly and chest and nipples; his shoulders and collarbone. He walks around Harry and strokes his fingers over his spine, which are followed by his sweetly questing mouth down the length of him, then reaches around and clasps Harry to his chest while he works open his belt and undoes his flies. Harry can feel the press of his naked form, his leanness, his tempered strength as his trousers and pants are slid down. He holds still as Draco drops to his knees behind him, feathering a light tongue down the crevice of his arse, teeth gentle and nipping over the sensitive underside of each cheek. 

When Harry is naked, Draco’s hands pause on either side of his right thigh where it will never fully stop hurting, at the union of _real_ and _gone_ and _other_ , and he leans his forehead against the back of it for a moment, breathing slowly. The room seems to shimmer, and his heart knocks in his chest, and he knows it is nothing more than wishful thinking or perhaps just love, but Draco’s breath or hands or mere presence does make the pain recede, just a little. Just enough.

Then Draco guides Harry to turn around, and looks up at him from his kneeling position. He begins kissing him again, parting Harry’s thighs to nuzzle the insides of them, coasting his open mouth over Harry’s hips and the crease of his groin. He mouths Harry’s balls, tongue flicking out, sending bright waves of unsteady desire through Harry’s centre as his half-hard cock thickens further, becoming steely and heavy. Then Draco lifts his head and opens his mouth and engulfs it in heat and wet and Harry’s hand falls to all of that fine, silvery hair, threading through it frantically as he tries to stay unmoving through the onslaught of sensation. Draco bobs his head, taking him deep, and Harry feels the crown of his prick brush against the tightness of Draco’s throat, which relaxes and constricts around it and then Draco _moans_ , low and muffled, like he loves it as much as Harry does, has missed it as much as Harry has, and the vibration and tightness and moisture and sweeping tenderness overcomes him and Harry breaks, his body tense and shaking, managing to make no movements but for one helpless thrust as he comes and Draco swallows it down, fingers tight on Harry’s shivering thighs.

He gives a gentle licking suck to coax out the last few drops and then pulls off of Harry’s prick, looking up with such knowing, potent eyes it almost makes him stumble. 

“Merlin,” Harry breathes shakily. His need has never been greater for Draco, but he doesn’t—can’t let himself—say the wrong thing. Draco gives him a half smile, and Harry says, “What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me, of course,” Draco says, like it’s obvious. He levers himself up neatly, and his swollen cock brushes against Harry’s stomach, leaving a slick trail as he leans in and kisses Harry’s mouth.

Harry follows him to the bed and stands there, uncertain, while Draco spreads himself out against the pillows. “I don’t want to—” 

“Harry, I _liked_ it,” Draco says plaintively with a subtle eye-roll. “I told you that. I like everything we do.”

Harry eyes grow hot and he blinks hard against the sudden ache in them. He climbs up onto the mattress and covers Draco, pressing him into the mattress with his body. He kisses his lips until they become full and red, until Draco is panting for breath, and still Harry can’t stop kissing him, the salt-sweet flavour of Draco and his own come rich and heady in his mouth. Draco’s hands grapple at the muscles over his ribcage as Harry slides his body against the other man, and his cock, trapped between them, leaks against Harry’s skin. Harry kisses him so deeply and for so long that his own cock begins to respond again, erection slowly lengthening against Draco’s. 

“ _Please, please_ —” Draco gasps into his mouth. Harry wedges a hand between them, slicking up his fingers with a quick wandless charm and slipping them between Draco’s thighs, avoiding touching his cock for fear he’ll come too soon. He slides two fingers between Draco’s clenching cheeks and finds his rim, as tight as the first time Harry had ever taken him, and Draco whines a little as Harry circles the furrowed bit of flesh. He breaches him with one finger first, slowly, pushing it in and pulling it out, deeper and deeper until his knuckle is butting up against the inside of Draco’s arse cheek and Draco is squirming breathlessly beneath him. Then he pulls it out to the tip and slides the second alongside it, screwing them in faster. 

Draco’s legs come up to wind around Harry’s waist and Harry twists his wrist, pulling his own body further away to allow for better access of his hand, looking down at Draco’s face as it grows blotchy with colour, as it tightens with frustrated need. Harry adds a third finger, and Draco’s hole grows loose and slippery and puffy under his fingers, so he ghosts his thumb around it as his fingers work, and Draco arches up into it, releasing Harry’s waist with one leg to dig his heel into the mattress and push up as he descends into outright whispered begging. “ _Please, oh Merlin, Harry, put your cock, oh fuck_.”

He pulls his fingers out but he’s not fully hard yet, so Harry pauses to stroke his prick with a tight hand, and then Draco is helping him, twisting his fist roughly over his shaft, and Draco’s hot, greedy eyes and knowledge of how Harry likes to be handled is what does it more than his touch, and his cock stiffens almost to the point of pain. He positions himself again between Draco’s lax thighs and lifts them up, resting his ankles on his shoulders before he rubs the crown of his cock over Draco’s rim, causing the other man to shiver. His hand cups the back of Harry’s neck to pull him down for a messy kiss as Harry pushes in slowly, sliding in with short, light thrusts until he’s settled against Draco’s arse, then strokes back out, pushing up on his knees with every inward movement. 

And it’s just like before, everything he remembered, just as he’s fantasised about for these long months, only _better_ , and _sweeter_ because now he’s allowed to love Draco with no reservations, and Draco has said he loves Harry too. Their eyes remain locked as Harry rocks into him with a fluidity he would not have been capable of if not for Draco’s patience and strength and care, and he feels every warm clasp of muscles around his aching prick like a vine loosening inside, something that had gotten so tangled and twisted around Harry’s heart he didn’t know how to find it for far too long. But now he doesn’t have to look, because it’s there before him, beneath him, wrapped around him. 

He begins moving faster and touches Draco’s cock, which jerks hard at the contact. Draco’s eyes squeeze shut and he turns his head, teeth sinking into his lower lip as Harry pulls along the shaft, then teases the underside of the glans with a wet, sticky thumb. Draco groans hoarsely as Harry starts to come, hips going erratic and clumsy as his spine begins to liquify from pleasure, prick throbbing inside Draco’s tight channel. Then Draco is spurting, covering both of them with long stripes of fluid and Harry watches him hungrily as he climaxes, mouth open in a silent yell as Harry pounds his over-sensitive, softening cock into Draco to let him ride out the last of the sensation. 

They are still for so long that Harry suspects he has dozed off when Draco rolls him to the side. His cock slips out of him and Draco grimaces, so Harry casts a cleaning charm through a yawn, and they lay side by side for a few minutes. 

“What were you saying about Hermione?” Draco asks, sounding sleepy. His hand finds Harry’s, and he winds their fingers together.

Boneless and exhausted, Harry has to think for a minute, then he smiles. “Oh, you mean before you so rudely interrupted me?”

Draco chuckles. “Just—what.”

“She told me how she tried to call in the Life-Debt,” Harry tells him, turning his head to view Draco in profile. He’s just as beautiful from the side, the lines of his face softening somewhat from the angle. 

Draco looks thoughtful. “For a while when I was younger, I kept thinking one day I would get an owl with a request from you. I hated that I owed you anything.”

“You can consider it paid in full, if you want,” Harry offers.

Draco throws him an amused glance. “That’s not how they work, you know.”

“Yeah.” He reaches up and tugs at his ear. “There is something.”

Huffing a laugh, Draco finally turns his face. “Something you want or something you need? Something that will save you?”

“The first two. The third has been taken care of.”

“I see.” Draco’s mobile, expressive mouth quirks for a moment. “So how shall I repay you?”

“With your life,” Harry says. Draco blinks, confused, and Harry holds his hand tighter. “I mean, if you want. I’d like it. I’d like it to be with mine. We can work out the details later.”

Something softens in Draco’s gaze before he looks away with a little smile. “My patient in New Zealand?”

“I’d never ask you to give that case up,” Harry says, though he feels a pang of sadness. “I know it’s perfect for you.”

“I don’t suppose you remember me mentioning that I was taking it on pro bono? Because he needs it, of course, but you’re right; it’s also the perfect case for me,” Draco says, “And he’s incredibly short of funds.”

“I remember,” Harry murmurs, bewildered. It’s obvious Draco’s not asking him, but Harry wonders if he should offer to donate toward the man’s care. 

“Well, apparently he doesn’t have any of the necessary training or therapeutic equipment, either. He’s been visiting a local hospital for treatment a few times a week, which is not nearly enough. And they can’t do the necessary research on his condition; they don’t have the resources,” Draco explains. “So I spoke with Doctor Marsh.”

The words drop like stones in the water, creating such a wide, surprising ripple of hope that Harry can barely process it. Harry turns on his side and props himself up with his elbow, giving over his full attention.

Draco’s mouth is twitching, like he’s trying not to actually smile. “And he agreed to take him on as a full-time patient at no cost. Which is best for everyone, really. The patient gets top-of-the-line treatment, I get to help and do research, and I may have also agreed to stay on at Doctor Marsh’s clinic with his other patients, so Doctor Marsh gets something, as well.”

“You sneaky bastard,” Harry mutters with admiration. “When did you do this?”

“A few days ago.” Draco loses control over his smile and it creases his whole face; crinkling the sides of his mouth and the corners of his mischievous grey eyes and Harry is going to have a lot of fun punishing him for this. 

“I love you so much,” he says instead, because first things first.

“I love you, too,” Draco says through his grin. It lowers a notch, grows more serious. “I did even then, you know. What was it you said, about how I make you smart and you make me brave?”

Harry snorts. “Nice.”

But then Draco is laughing and Harry can’t make himself argue—that will come later, again and again, for as long as they have; it’s _them,_ after all—and so he hooks his prosthetic around the back of Draco’s legs to draw him closer, pulling him into his arms again, into his kiss, and down into joy.


	10. Epilogue: The Life He Loves (The Life He Wants)

Harry executes a twisting loop in the air, revelling in the whip of hair over his face. He can hear the hoots and hollers from the stands as he angles his broom down and begins a furious spiralling nosedive to the ground, hunching his body inward to cut down on wind resistance and gain speed. When the ground is mere feet away, he yanks up on the broom handle with both hands, letting himself careen slightly to alleviate the abrupt mid-flight halt and swoops his leg over the seat gracefully as the broom continues to glide, before hopping down onto the soft, slightly damp grass.

Draco stares at him, looking murderous and vaguely ill. “I can’t believe you fucking did that.”

Harry smirks. “Stop daring me to do things if you don’t want to see it, then.”

“Stop deliberately misinterpreting me,” Draco huffs irritably as they begin walking off the pitch together. “I dared you to catch the Snitch in under five minutes.”

“Which I did,” Harry says, holding it up. Its wings flutter briefly and then fall still. 

“And almost killed yourself showing off.”

“The Snitch thing was showing off,” Harry corrects cheerfully. “The dismount was something I’ve just been wanting to try.”

“Are you ever going to outgrow your reckless tendencies?” Draco complains, mostly to himself. 

Harry smiles and nudges the other man with his shoulder. He’ll never admit it, but he had been showing off, just a little. He rather likes the nauseated look on Draco’s face whenever he does something Draco considers dangerous. Besides, soon enough Draco will be needling him to know how he pulled up from the ground so fast; it’s more to do with the positioning of the hands—one thumb locked over the other, and the fingers linked beneath—than the force used to direct the broomstick, but Harry’s pretty sure he’s going to have to let Draco fester in his own curiosity for a while.

“How long did you say you have for lunch?” he asks as he locks his broom in the professor’s shed and retrieves his cane. 

Draco raises his eyebrows slyly. “What do you have in mind?”

A little roll of lust runs through Harry at his tone. He represses a shudder of want, thinking of that morning. Draco had woken him up by riding him, his hole already loosened by the previous night’s activities. For several minutes, Harry had been convinced he was still dreaming. “I was considering eating,” he says, lips twitching. “Food. It may not be as fun as sexually assaulting the comatose, but—”

Draco snorts. “You were hard. It would have just gone to waste otherwise.”

“You could have, I don’t know, _woken me up first_ ,” Harry points out, trying not to laugh. “And don’t think you’re going to convince me that you didn’t do anything to encourage my cock. I don’t get hard in my sleep anymore.”

It’s true; just one of the many abilities that hasn’t returned upon his recovery. It still gives him a twinge of humiliation, now and then, when he thinks of it. Fortunately, Draco doesn’t have a problem disabusing him of his insecurities about inadequacy when the depression begins to intrude. 

“You do when I suck you off,” Draco admits, looking overly-innocent.

Harry laughs and leans in close to his ear. “You’ll pay for that later,” he murmurs, giving Draco’s lobe a little nip with his teeth. Draco starts to shift closer to him but Harry spies a couple of second years determinedly making their way toward them and gives him a subtle push backward. “Besides,” he adds as the kids approach, “You made me miss breakfast.”

“Professor Potter?” The pair of students, Alice and Marco, linger a few feet away, as wide-eyed as he’d once been. They’re both Muggle-born and raised but both quick learners and both still enjoying the first blush of love with magic. Alice, in particular, reminds him of Hermione, she’s taken to everything so quick.

“Hi Alice. Hi Marco. What can I help you with?”

Marco looks at Alice as if pleading with her to speak. He’s a shy boy, and Harry has been trying to pull him out of his shell in class, to no avail. Alice shakes her head at him minutely; apparently, Harry has an unwitting cohort in helping the boy speak up for himself. 

Marco takes a deep breath. “ _Wewerewonderingifmaybewecould_ —”

“Whoa! Slow down, that sounds like Parseltongue!” he objects, and Draco hides a smile next to him.

“Don’t you speak Parseltongue?” Alice asks, cocking her head to the side curiously. Harry grins. Yep, she’s just like Hermione.

“What do you guys need?” he tries again.

Marco swallows. “We were wondering if maybe we could join your Defence Club?”

Regretfully, Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You need to be in fourth year before you can join.”

Marco coughs. “I mean, just to watch? Not to—try spells or anything.”

Harry considers it. Defence Club covers the things they don’t work on in D.A.D.A; examining threatening potions, covering historical case histories, and learning the procedure to investigative background work. It’s mostly for students who have shown an interest in law enforcement, or those who just really like the extra credit. They do practice spellwork, but it’s far tamer than what they do in his Advanced Defence class. He glances at Draco, who shrugs as if to say what can it hurt? 

Harry nods slowly. “All right. If you Owl your parents for permission and they write back that they’re fine with it, I suppose you can come in. As _observers, only_ ,” he stresses, giving each of them a narrow look. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Alice bounces a little on the balls of her feet and squeals. “Thank you, Professor!” 

“Yeah, thanks!” Marco echoes, eyes bright with awe. The children exchange a look and dash off together, as if they’re afraid he’s going to change his mind.

Harry turns back to Draco, who is looking at him with a fond expression. He begins to step forward, but halts himself. “Wipe that look off your face; I don’t want to get taken to task by McGonagall again.”

Draco smirks as they begin walking toward the Great Hall. “I’m not the one with a lack of self-control,” he points out, causing Harry to flush. 

It really _hadn’t_ been Draco’s fault that Harry had pushed him against the stones of the castle a couple of months ago for an extended kiss that had rapidly gotten out of hand. To be fair, it had been after curfew and the halls had been empty, but nothing will ever cure his trauma of being discovered in a semi-compromising position by the Headmistress, who _still_ narrows her eyes whenever he and Draco walk into a room with less than a foot between them. Remembering that, he shifts slightly away from the other man as they enter the room filled with children and professors eating lunch, relieved he’s thought of it when McGonagall raises her eyebrows and looks away. 

It's not standard that professor’s partners join in school meals, but Draco volunteers some of his free time at the medical wing, and so there are exceptions to be made. He takes an empty seat beside Harry, deliberately scooting his chair a fraction closer as they load up their plates and begin eating.

After a few minutes, Draco leans over. “You’re calling her McGonagall. She’s still upset?”

“Yeah, well, if _someone_ hadn’t dared me to call her Minnie—”

Draco snickers. “I’m just trying to see if there’s a limit on the things I can get you to do.”

Harry slants him a grin. “I think we’ve established there isn’t,” he says pointedly, satisfied when Draco’s throat begins to turn pink at the implication.

Harry focuses on his lunch for a few minutes until Draco clears his throat, somewhat awkwardly. “I came by for a reason today,” he murmurs. 

Harry lays down his fork and gives over his attention. Draco won’t meet his eyes, and there’s something… off. He feels a flutter of unease. “Are you all right? Everything going well with Tom?”

Tom is the New Zealand wizard, with whom Draco has been working for a year and a half. He’s had some setbacks recently as his blood curse has grown stronger, but even the previous day Draco had been confident he’d been getting close to finding some kind of cure, if not reversing the effects of paralysis to the man’s legs. 

Draco nods; he looks strangely guilty. “I’m fine. Tom’s fine. But I was actually supposed to fetch you before I got distracted by watching you on your broom. Doctor Marsh wanted to discuss something with you and I know your next class isn’t until one.”

“Is it about the interview he wants me to give for the clinic?” Harry asks. “I’ve already agreed—”

Draco waves a vague hand. “I don’t think so. Whenever you’re ready?”

Harry looks at him suspiciously, but Draco has his innocent face on again and it’s clear Harry won’t get anything out of him. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he rises from the chair and Draco follows him through the corridors of Hogwarts until they reach the staff quarters.

Technically, it’s against the rules for unmarried staff to be cohabitating on school grounds. But they keep a small flat in Hogsmeade together for the weekends, which connects to the Floo in Harry’s quarters, so if Draco happens to spend every single night there, no one is the wiser—or at least willing to challenge them on the arrangement. 

Besides, the technicality of being unmarried—hopefully—won’t be a problem for much longer, Harry thinks as they head over to the fireplace. He just hasn’t found the right time to bring it up.

He follows Draco into the Floo and comes out on the other side in Doctor Marsh’s bright, cheery office, the walls of which are covered with drawings from some of his younger patients, and framed thank-you letters from his older ones. Doctor Marsh rocks forward in his leather chair behind his desk with a wide smile. “Harry, thank you for coming!”

“I didn’t have much choice if I wanted to figure out what was going on,” Harry says dryly, shaking the man’s hand.

Doctor Marsh throws Draco a mischievous glance. “I asked him not to say. Come with me, now.”

Curious, Harry looks at Draco’s face—his mouth is twitching with effort to conceal his expression—then lets Doctor Marsh lead him down to a private room in the expansive halls of his clinic. He gestures for Harry to sit up on the exam table, then points his wand at a locked cabinet. It clicks open and a formless prosthetic—exactly like the one he’d designed for Harry over two years prior—flies into his hand.

Harry swallows hard. “What’s that?”

“If you’ll humour me,” the doctor says mildly. “Can you remove your robes and take down your trousers?”

Heart thundering, Harry fumbles with the fastenings of his robes. For no reason he can discern, he feels flooded with nerves; his mouth has gone dry, and his hands shake. But then Draco is there, knocking his trembling fingers out of the way, and efficiently stripping Harry of his robe before unclasping his belt and undoing his flies. He kneels down to remove Harry’s shoes, then silently urges him to stand so he can peel down his trousers and pull them off.

The office is cold, Harry thinks distantly. That’s surely why he’s shivering.

Doctor Marsh gives him a gentle smile, then casts his wand at Harry’s prosthetic; the charm unwinds itself—Harry can never control his wince, watching his semi-permanent limb separate from his body—and the doctor takes it and sets it aside. Draco moves out the way as the doctor holds the new potential limb up to his stump and begins the process of attaching it.

It’s exactly the same as before, watching it form into the shape of his missing leg; the sharp ache as it first knits itself to his flesh and bone. It even feels mostly the same, Harry notes, bending slightly at the knee when the prosthetic is fully attached. The sensations are slightly muted, the same as the other, but there is something a bit—different. He looks up at Draco, then turns to Doctor Marsh.

“Okay. So, I haven’t demanded to know what’s going on yet because you both look like the Kneazles who ate the owl, but can someone explain now that I’m half naked and wearing a new prosthetic I didn’t even know was being designed for me?” he asks evenly.

Doctor Marsh chuckles. “Stand on it. Feel it.”

Harry feels his brows draw together as he follows the directives. It’s… lighter. Easier. There’s still the deep tissue-and-bone ache that resides with him, but his gait has evened out. “Holy shit,” he blurts, looking at Draco, who is grinning. “Does this mean I still need—”

“Your custom broom?” Draco supplies, pale eyes sparkling. “Probably not, unless you’re having some pain that day.”

To be able to fly. To be able to fly like he used to. The enormity of it hits Harry and he sits back down heavily on the exam table, staring at the limb.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt wholly free in the air. Whatever—not insignificant—skills he has now are not the thoughtless joy he used to experience during flight. He’s always aware of the weight of his leg and its positioning. And though his broom helps his balance, he’s always aware of the hard earth below him, in ways he’s never had to focus on during the _before_ , when flying was his greatest, singular, most instinctive pleasure. 

“Draco,” he says weakly, and Draco laces their fingers together loosely. 

“There’s more,” he says with a nod toward Doctor Marsh, who is looking at them both with a small smile.

“I’ve figured out the problem with Apparition,” he murmurs, and the words run through Harry like a jolt of electricity.

“You can Apparate now, Harry,” Draco says quietly in his ear. “You can do anything.”

“I didn’t want to discuss it with you while I was still working out the kinks,” Doctor Marsh tells him. “But it turned out to be only a small modification of imbuing the prosthetic with DNA from the intended user, rather than just the magical signature. Draco helpfully furnished me with some of yours.”

Blinking, Harry turns to Draco, who snorts at the look on his face. “ _Hair_ , you twit,” he says under his breath. Then he raises his voice. “You could resume Auror work now, if you want.”

Numbly, Harry collects his clothes and begins dressing. He casts an apologetic look at Doctor Marsh. “I wish I knew how to thank you enough. I need to head back to Hogwarts; I have a class in a few minutes.”

Doctor Marsh looks concerned. “Is the fit not right? I can—”

“No, it feels fine,” Harry says, bending his knee a few times in demonstration. “Draco and I will have to take you out to dinner to celebrate. But I really do have to go now.”

The doctor gives him a hard, assessing look, and then a nod. “Wait here for a few minutes, please, and then Apparate into my office to use the Floo. I have no doubt it’s working properly—I wouldn’t have given it to you otherwise—but I’d like to view it with my own eyes before you leave.”

“All right.”

Doctor Marsh heads out, and Harry is left alone with Draco, who looks baffled. “What’s going on, Harry? I thought you would be—happy.”

“I am,” Harry says, surprised to find that its true. It’s not the _only_ thing he’s feeling, however, and he doesn’t know how to explain the confusing swirl of emotions bubbling inside, or the steady pulse of sadness inside his chest. He doesn’t know how to explain that, inexplicably, he feels like crying. 

He gives Draco a hard kiss and tugs him in for a brief hug. Draco’s arms are still winding around him when he pulls away. “We’ll talk later, yeah? I have to get to my class.”

“All right,” Draco says slowly. He takes a step back, then jerks his chin with a tentative smile. “Get to it, then.”

With a deep breath and a loud crack, Harry Apparates himself into Doctor Marsh’s office. He lands heavily onto his leg, causing it to throb, but there’s no other side effect, and Doctor Marsh clicks his tongue in delight. “Well done!”

Harr throws him a wry smile. “Thanks. Dinner this weekend?”

“I’ll check with my wife,” the doctor says genially. 

“Bring her,” Harry invites, stepping quickly over to the Floo. He does everything he can with his parting smile to convince himself, and Doctor Marsh, that his parting is not what it is.

An escape.

***

Harry teaches his last class mechanically. Halfway through, when there seems to be a high volume of questions being asked, he announces a pop quiz on how to spot an unregistered Animagus to give himself time to think.

Afterward, he foregoes dinner and heads to the edge of the property line to Apparate directly into his and Draco’s Hogsmeade flat, just because he can. His Firebolt is sitting in a closet in their home in London, but he takes out Draco’s Nimbus 6000 and stares at it awhile, running his hands over the sleek, sculpted length of wood, drifting his palm over the bristles of the twigs at the end. He puts it back it its place carefully, then heads back out.

He takes a walk in the rapidly fading sunlight, and stops in one store after another—picking up the newest book on medical potions for Draco, and a box of crackling toffee for himself—marvelling at the ease with which he can walk now. He’s gotten so used to his weight listing to the side, so accustomed to having to accommodate his walk by exerting more pressure with his right hip, that he feels decidedly awkward with the new lightness of step he’s been afforded. It’ll take a while to get used to.

He walks back up the packed earth road to Hogwarts in the darkening twilight just as the first stars begin to twinkle overhead, and heads to their rooms, sighing a little when he lets himself inside.

Draco stands up, his face as stormy as his eyes. “Where the hell have you been?”

Harry blinks and holds out the bag he’s been carrying with Draco’s book and his candy. “Hogsmeade,” he says in surprise at Draco’s vehemence. “You work late on Tuesdays.”

Draco glowers at him. “I came back early to talk.”

Harry sets the bag down when Draco makes no move to take it. He unfastens his robe and drapes it over their small sofa. “Why, are you okay?”

“That’s _not funny, Harry_ ,” Draco growls, lowering his chin like a maddened Hippogriff. Harry cracks an unwilling smile as Draco continues, “I checked with Ron and Hermione and even bloody McGonagall—who wants to see you tomorrow morning, by the way, about why I, apparently, have access to the staff quarters when you’re not here—and you didn’t tell a single bloody person where you were going!”

Harry looks at him. Draco tends to translate his fear into anger, which has the side-effect of leading them into some truly epic fights and even more impressive make-up sex. Only—he doesn’t want to fight right now.

“I’m sorry,” he capitulates. “I needed to think for a while.”

“I gathered,” Draco sneers, and dear Merlin, he actually taps his foot. Molly would be so proud. “We did nothing wrong by trying to ensure you had the best possible medical care and utilities at your disposal, and if you’re angry that I didn’t tell you, may I remind you that we agreed that surprises don’t count as secrets and—”

“I don’t want to go back to being an Auror,” Harry interjects, partly because it’s true, but mostly to shut him up. He sits down on their sofa heavily; apparently, different muscles were used today, and his thigh and hip are incredibly sore.

Draco stares at him in silence for a moment, then moves over to sit beside him. He huffs slightly. “Did you think _I_ wanted to you to?”

Harry hesitates, frowning. “N-not exactly. You don’t?”

“Why in the name of Merlin’s tits would I want you to be in such a dangerous position on a daily basis?” Draco says, giving Harry a look like he’s daft. “I thought it was what you wanted.”

“Me too,” he muses. “But I—I like our life here. What it is. What it could be. I like teaching; I always have. And Hogwarts—”

“Has always been your home,” Draco finishes for him quietly. “I know that. But—you’re not thinking of doing something like refusing the new prosthetic, are you?”

Harry chuckles. “Are you mad? I get to fly again. Really fly, Draco,” he says, voice so tight with longing that Draco smiles. “Apparition was important for being an Auror, which was the main reason it bothered me to be unable to do it, but it makes things a hell of a lot simpler. No, I’m not going refuse the prosthetic.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but the tension on his face eases. “Right. I’d better Firecall Ron and Hermione; you really worried them, you know.”

“You really worried them,” Harry corrects, amused. “None of you had any reason to be worried.”

“Except for both of us, now, with McGonagall,” Draco says with a wince. “I’m sorry about that. We probably got away with the cohabitation rule as long as we could have, considering.”

Harry observes him quietly; his clear grey eyes and narrow face, his high cheekbones and expressive mouth and fine, white-blond hair. _Draco_ , he thinks. _My Draco._

Draco’s pale eyebrows knit as he notices something different on Harry’s face and he returns Harry’s look questioningly but meets him halfway as Harry leans in for a kiss. His mouth is warm and slick and right, and Harry’s heart thuds with desire and the sudden sharp tangle of nerves that he knows in his marrow is not really necessary.

“About that,” he says when he pulls away. Draco’s eyes are heavy lidded with want, his breath coming just a little fast. He’s so beautiful, and he’s given Harry so much, but for this one last thing. 

“About that?”

“Yes.” Harry looks at the light in Draco’s eyes. He thinks of the words he’s going to hear, spoken in Draco’s deep, patrician tones. _I will_ , he’ll say. _I do_. Harry thinks of the ring box hidden deep in his sock drawer, and the simple platinum band within it, the inside of which is scrolled with their joined initials. He takes a deep breath. “I have a question to ask you,” he says.

And slowly, Draco smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little note about the wrap-up: Generally, I'm always going to make the characters as happy as possible at the end of a story. It's what I like to write, and like to read, and brings me a lot of joy. But I do want to note that while I did what I could to remedy the more difficult aspects of Harry's disability, I am incredibly aware that people can live incredibly rich, fulfilling lives without this kind of neat ending, and I so hope all of my readers are aware of this as well.
> 
> Thank you so much for everyone who has been patient through the posting of this, and who has left such lovely, encouraging comments. You guys are the best; I appreciate you all more than I can say.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are lovely.
> 
> And come find me on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com), if you like, 'cause I'm over there now, too! :) *waves*


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